A Widening Circle
by Brighid45
Summary: Final story in the Treatment 'verse. Jason's home from school...is House helping or hindering his journey toward becoming a physician? This storyline is AU and does not follow canon after the events of the S5 finale Both Sides Now. OC romance, humor, drama, some angst. Chapter eleven now posted. Please read and review, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

_**(Welcome to the endgame story for the Treatment 'verse, I hope you enjoy it. I've split the first chapter into two sections mainly because I'm still writing the second half! I'll post it on Thursday. Many thanks to all who have commented and reviewed my stories over the years, especially the guest reviewers to whom I can't reply directly. Your comments are always much appreciated. **_

_**This story picks up some years later from the end of What You Need. -B)**_

"_I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world." _

― _Rainer Maria Rilke_

_About fifteen years later . . . _

_May 5th_

It was a nice spring day, warm with plenty of sun and a soft breeze coming through the car window. Jason yawned and stretched a bit, glanced out at scenery he knew well but hadn't seen in some time. He'd missed the last two holidays—his choice, but not really a choice at all, as it had turned out. _More like avoidance_, he thought, and pushed the knowledge away.

He was moving through the village now, the few storefronts dark, though the lights were on in Rick's bakery. Jason contemplated fresh doughnuts and a large coffee and sat up a bit. He pulled into the closest spot, shut off the car, stretched, snagged his travel mug and got out.

Rick was behind the counter as always; a little more wrinkled, and a few pounds heavier, but still the same smile. It widened as Jason came through the door. "Hey Jay, good to see you. It's been a while, man."

Jason nodded. "Rick." He realized some conversation was expected. He was back in a small town now, where everyone knew each other and took the time to chat. "How's it going?"

"Well you know, can't complain. Wouldn't do no good anyway." Rick wiped his hands on his apron. "Kids are doin' okay, wife's got a cold, business is pretty decent all things considered. How about you? You're outta school now, right?"

Jason felt some bitter amusement at the question. "Yeah."

"Back to stay for a while?" Rick gave him a speculative look. "Gonna hang up your shingle?"

"We'll see." The future loomed before him, full of uncertainty. He pulled his thoughts away from the problems he'd been struggling with. "Need a dozen mixed to take home. And a coffee." He set his travel mug on the counter.

Rick took the hint. "You got it. I just put the first batch out, they're still warm." He moved off to get a box and Jason relaxed a little. If he talked to anyone about the last week's events, it would be Dad first, and maybe House.

A few minutes later Rick handed Jason the box and his mug. "It's good to have you back," he said. The quiet sincerity in his tone was something of a surprise.

"Thanks." He wanted to say it was good to be home, but the words stuck in his throat. "Say hi to the family for me."

"Will do. Don't be a stranger." Rick gave him a smile and turned away to refill the pastry case as Jason slipped out into the new morning.

The coffee was just as he remembered it; strong, a little harsh, but delicious. Mom would scold him for not waiting till he got home, but he needed the taste, if not the caffeine. He'd managed to doze a little with the car autopilot navigating I-95 through the night, but he doubted he'd get any sleep for a while once he was home.

He drove through the waking village, past the post office and the feed store, the barber shop where Gordy's grandson Andy worked part-time, and the library. It all looked smaller, more run-down and shabby than he remembered. But the rising sunshine was glorious on the mountains and the deep green of the trees, and the air smelled of fresh-cut hay and manure and growing things. He'd been away long enough to notice the change from the stink of the big city and hospitals.

Home looked the same as it always did. Mom had the first pots of basil and mint out on the step, along with her favorite nasturtiums. Jason pulled the car into the side yard, shut it down, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, aware he was scared. He remembered his first time here, a neglected, abused kid, oblivious to the complete switch of fortune ahead. This felt a little like that, but now he understood that whatever happened this was home, warm and welcoming, and no one would ever turn him away. He sighed softly, opened his eyes and got out.

He went around to the back door, mainly to see if Mom was in the garden. She'd sent him plans for this season's planting, though he hadn't been able to work on it with her. Now though, he'd probably spend at least the summer weeding and harvesting vegetables, among other things.

She was in the garden, relaxed and comfortable in the beat-up old kitchen chair they'd trash-picked years ago. It was clear she'd been working on cultivating a bed, probably the one for root vegetables, if the spading pitchfork propped against a stake was any indication. She sat facing the sun, eyes closed.

"Second breakfast is ready any time you want it," she said in the wry, affectionate tone she reserved for House. "You're up kinda early this morning."

"Mom," Jason said. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as she straightened and opened her eyes. And then she was on her feet coming toward him, to envelop him in an embrace that felt so good he had to clamp down hard on a sudden urge to cry.

"I was beginning to think you weren't ever coming home," she said after a while. The happiness in her soft voice made him feel ashamed, and sad.

"I wanted to surprise you," he said, and rested his cheek against her curls. She gave him a little extra hug.

"Come on," she said finally. "You've had a long drive from Boston, you must be hungry and tired."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Now I know I'm home. You're already taking care of me."

Mom swatted his butt gently. "Of course I am. Let's go."

The doughnuts were served up alongside eggs, sausage and fresh coffee. Jason took down some plates and paused, struggling with an odd sense of both panic and relief.

"The last couple of weeks have been bad, haven't they?" Mom put a hand on his back. "You've lost weight."

"I—I can't . . ." His hands tightened on the plates. He made a conscious effort to relax them. "I can't talk about it yet."

Mom moved her hand to his shoulder and gave him a light squeeze. "All right," she said after a moment. She sounded worried, but her touch was as reassuring as always. "Let's have breakfast. Dad will be back from town shortly."

They ate at the breakfast bar as they'd usually done during his high school days. The sunshine coming in the window, the radio on the NPR station, the smell of hot fat in the pan and coffee . . . He felt the knot in his gut loosen a little.

"How was the drive down?" Mom asked, and sipped her tea. "I hear they're doing a lot of construction work, it must have been slow going." She took a doughnut. "Your bedroom's ready for you. Did you get any sleep last night at all?"

Jason was spared from answering by the sound of the back door code being punched in. A moment later a voice emerged from the mudroom, loud and aggrieved.

"You could try dumping your damn filthy boots someplace besides right in front of the door!"

Mom glanced at Jason. She winked. "Good morning Greg!" she called, her tone sunny as the new day outside. "Second breakfast is ready!"

A moment later House emerged from the mudroom, still muttering under his breath. Jason hadn't seen him for close to a year now; the older man looked much the same as always-tall, lean, stooping a bit, but that vivid blue stare was as bright and piercing as ever. "Idiot rednecks . . ." His voice trailed off when he saw Jason; his eyes widened, and he darted a look at Mom which held equal parts alarm and concern. And then it was gone. He came into the kitchen, shucked off his jacket, dumped it on a stool, and went to the coffeemaker.

"So junior's back," he said, and grabbed a mug. "About time." He poured coffee, stirred in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, and looked over the doughnut selection.

"My lease wasn't up until the end of April," Jason said, and winced at how defensive he sounded.

"Do I care? It was just a general comment on local conditions."

"I see 'local conditions' haven't changed. Still getting a free breakfast while you track mud into Mom's kitchen." It was a weak riposte but it was all he could manage at the moment.

"You're one to talk, coming back to—"

"What's going on?" Mom's quiet words held a warning: _don't lie to me_. Jason felt a jolt of dread go through him like a lightning bolt.

"You tell me, I just got here," House said. His tone was light, but Jason saw his hand tighten on the mug handle.

"Both of you are behaving like guilty parties. In fact everyone's been acting weird for the last month, even Gene . . ." She fell silent for a moment, then said "What aren't you telling me?"

Jason had known this moment would arrive, had known there was no escaping it, and still he felt trapped. "Mom, there's nothing—"

"No, I'm not imagining it, don't even go there! I want the truth!"

"I think I hear the clinic calling me," House said, and grabbed a doughnut. "See you later."

"_Sit down_." Oh, she was mad now, no doubt about it. "Someone better start talkin'." Jason dared a glance at her. Mom gave him a level stare. All the humor and warmth was gone from her features; she looked grim and worse, worried. He took a deep breath.

"I—I cheated."

His words fell into the bright kitchen like stones through a window. Utter silence followed. House moved to a stool, perched on it like a naughty kid looking for any chance to escape. "Of course you'd find the worst way to say it," he muttered.

"Is there a _best_ way to tell your mother something like this?" Mom snapped. She ran a hand through her curls, a sure sign of deep distress, and took a breath, clearly trying to calm down. "All right—okay. I'm—I'm listening."

"I didn't cheat on my exams," Jason said when he could speak past the lump in his throat. He'd heard the echo of disappointment in Mom's voice, the pain she couldn't quite hide, and knew he would never forget it, ever. "It—it wasn't that. I just . . . I . . . I wrote papers. For other students," he added, and winced. He sounded like a stupid scared kid now, trying to justify bad behavior. _But aren't you?_ that little voice deep inside whispered. Jason ignored it and waited.

"Did you at least make some decent money?" House wanted to know. Mom swung her gaze to him. Another silence fell.

"You told him about this," she said at last.

"Yeah, I did." House glared at her, defiant, anxious. "So what? You went to school, you know it's no big deal."

"It is to me." Mom's voice trembled. "I don't expect anyone to be perfect, but this is—this is choosing to do something wrong. You can call it tradition, you can say it goes on all the time. I don't care, it's _wrong_."

"I used the money to pay my rent," Jason said, attempting to find some way out, though he knew it was hopeless. Still, he had to try. "I used it for food. Not stupid shit—I mean stupid things like parties."

Mom looked out the window. "If you needed help you could have called us," she said. "We told you that from your first day in college."

"You're already paying for everything else! I just wanted—" Jason stopped, went on. "I wanted to—contribute. To help out. You and Dad, you're paying off the loans and I know it's tough for you, it's been tough for years but you never say anything—" His throat closed up.

"See? Not so bad," House said. Mom got to her feet.

"You and me," she said to House, "in the office, right now. You," she said to Jason, "wait here for your dad, and then we'll talk about this, and you will tell me _everything_, do I make myself clear? Every single damn thing you haven't told me for the last however long this has been going on. And don't you even _dare_ to sit here thinkin' up some bullshit story, because I'll know you're lying and you will only make it much worse for yourself." There was no defying the cold authority she put in every syllable. She paused. "The fellowship-did they kick you out as a candidate?"

"I don't know," Jason said. He swallowed. "They're discussing it with the department heads in a couple of weeks."

"I see." Mom went to the door. "Greg, come with me."

House got up reluctantly to follow her. He stopped next to Jason. "Nice going, _dumbass_," he growled, and stumped out of the kitchen.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._ **


	2. Chapter 1, part 2

**_(A short chapter, but we'll get a chapter on Monday. Be warned, there's more bad language than usual ahead in this section. -B)_**

_Damn. Damn , damn and double fuck-damn_. Greg follows his shrink into the office with the greatest reluctance. He must be getting senile to allow himself to be trapped into a confrontation this easily and not think of a way out.

"Siddown," Sarah says. She pushes a chair at him and assumes her usual place at her desk. He slowly perches on the seat, ready to take off. "Stop acting like I'm gonna beat you and relax."

"Maybe I don't feel like playing Twenty Questions," he snaps. His hands are trembling just a little—but hey, they do that all the time now. It's annoying as hell when he's trying to pick notes on his guitar or play piano.

"You don't have to if you tell me exactly what's been going on." Sarah gives him that level stare he dreads. "So start talkin'."

"You presume I have intimate knowledge—"

"Greg." That flat tone tells him her capacity for bullshit and lies is a lot smaller than he'd like. "_Don't_. Just—just don't. I want to know what happened."

"The damn kid told you what happened. Big deal." He slouches in his chair like an eighth-grader hauled into the principal's office for fighting in the cafeteria.

"Apparently the committee thinks it's a big deal. Jason's been working hard to get that cardiovascular disease fellowship and now—" She stops, lowers her head, and takes a long deep breath. "Tell me what the hell went on."

It is the intimation of patient resignation in her tone that sets him off in a burst of anger and fear. "I told the kid about writing papers, so what! Don't tell me you never encountered that side of college life! When you were in school you knew who wrote the best papers and how much they charged per page, everyone knew!" He wants to get up, pace, escape.

"Yes, I knew." Sarah won't look at him. "It made me angry because I was half-killing myself trying to do term papers and study while people were handing in work they hadn't even read through and getting better GPAs than me."

"You—it wasn't that hard for you," Greg says in disbelief. "You're too damn smart."

"It _was_ hard! No one ever taught me how to read or write, the teachers in grade school knew my brothers and thought I was the same as them, so they never bothered . . . I had to figure things out for myself!" She scrubs a hand over her face and looks at him, and he sees tears in her eyes, dammit. "College was hell. If Prof hadn't been there to show me how to study and write a decent essay I'd probably be scrubbin' dirty plates and screwin' the owner in some greasy spoon in Tulsa just to make my drug money."

They sit there in silence for a few moments. "The kid needed cash to make rent. One of the guys who agreed to split the cost took off and everyone had a bigger share," Greg says at last. "Once he got into med school there was no way he could work, you know that. As he just told you, he didn't want to come to you and Goldman for more money. So I told him about writing papers." It feels like the words are being pulled out of him like abscessed wisdom teeth.

"You could have suggested tutoring," Sarah says quietly. "Or better yet, told him to come to us—"

"_Jesus!_ Were you not listening when he said he didn't want to hit you up for extras?" He can't handle this, he _has_ to get up and move around or he'll go apeshit. "You're really gonna come down on him for wanting to be independent—"

"_No!_" Sarah glares at him. She looks so distressed and he can't stand it. "But I don't want him—" She stops and color rushes into her cheeks. Greg feels his gut tighten as realization kicks in.

"You don't want him to be like me," he says.

"I want Jason to be himself."

"Nice answer. So all this time you've had a bug up your ass about how I do things." He rests a hip on Goldman's desk and watches her. The trembling in his hands is worse. "Good to know."

"You were expelled from two medical schools for cheating, and you did it just because you could," Sarah says. Her tone is neutral; she is feeling her way carefully now, and that scares him even more than if she just kept yelling at him. "You went on to become one of the world's best doctors—"

"Only _one_ of the best, not _the_ best? I'm hurt," he mocks. She ignores him.

"—and I want Jason to learn from you—"

"But only the morally-approved bits and pieces you think I can offer him, yeah yeah, I get it!" He paces across to the window, looks out on the beautiful day. "You approved my mentoring him but you never put any restrictions on my methods—"

"You chose to cheat because it was such a great way to flip the bird at every authority figure in the school!" Sarah says sharply. "As a mentor you have some responsibility to—"

"As a mentor I have the job of getting your kid through med school and residency and into a fellowship that will actually show him how to be a goddamn fucking real doctor! Not some-some dickwad homonculus in a lab coat who hands out the pills the drug reps give him and overbooks because he's got a shitload of student loans to pay off!"

"So it's all right to cheat, to lie, to do whatever it takes to get what you want?" Sarah's voice is shaking now.

"_Yes!_ _Yes_, dammit! To get the diagnosis you use whatever works! You break into the patient's house to find the truth of how they live, you run a test everyone says is pointless, you have your minions talk to people outside the family to get more bits of the truth—you do what it takes!"

"But that's diagnosis, it's not school! What you had Jason doing is helping people get into the system who have no idea how the fuck to be a doctor and don't care! They'll cheat all right, but it won't be to help a patient!" Now Sarah's on her feet too, arms folded, eyes blazing. "It's wrong and you know it!"

They stare at each other across the room for what seems like an eternity. Then he goes to the door, wrenches it open and leaves her behind, unwilling, unable to hear another word.

Jason is still in the kitchen, standing at the sink, putting dishes in the rack. He turns when Greg comes in.

"Come over later," Greg says to forestall the long discussion he knows is inevitable. "I can't talk to you here."

"Give Mom a chance to cool down," Jason says. He is pale, his dark gaze anxious. "You know how she is when she gets mad."

"Call first," is all Greg says, and then he's down the steps and through the mudroom, out into the sunshine. He starts for home, stops, blinking in the strong light, and turns just a little. Sarah stands at the office window, watching him. Her expression is unreadable, impassive. They stare at each other for a breath; he feels that pain deep within that he knows all too well, borne of an unwelcome mixture of guilt, shame and anger, and hurt too. He turns away and walks down the lane, refusing to think of anything except putting one foot in front of the other.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**_


	3. Chapter 2

_**(A huge thank you to everyone who's following the story, me, or both. I am deeply honored and humbly grateful. Thanks also for reviewing, it's very much appreciated.**_

_**To answer the guest reviewer who wanted to know where Jason was in his schooling and who also pointed out residents get salaries: thank you for reading and commenting. At this point Jason is applying for fellowships, so as I understand it, he's leaving 'official' residency but not in his own practice per se. I do know residents get paid; we are very early in the story still, so details about Jason's life will come out as we go along. **_

_**House and Roz will be featured in the next chapter. -B) **_

Jason heard them arguing in the office over him; he heard the raised voices, the silences full of hurt and recrimination. He couldn't bear the sound of it, couldn't bear waiting, doing nothing.

It took all of five minutes to find his link, stuffed in one of the side pockets of his duffel. He'd gotten used to not wearing it during work hours, a habit he didn't want to break though right now it seemed pointless. He put the link in his ear and said "Prof's personal line." He knew Gordon was somewhere in the south of France by now, probably staying with a friend or at his favorite hotel.

"Jason," Prof said a moment later. That warm, resonant voice was a bit dimmed and held a slight tremor, but it could still convey affection and delight. "How lovely! I was just thinking of you this morning, dear boy. You're at home now, I see. How did finals go, everything all right?"

"Well . . . not exactly," Jason said with some reluctance. "I . . . um, let's just say some unpleasant facts have come to light and it's causing problems."

"Unpleasant facts," Prof said slowly. "So this is in the nature of a professional call."

"Yeah, it is. I was gonna call anyway," Jason said in perfect truth, and winced because it sounded like a lie.

"Of course." Prof was polite but Jason knew he didn't buy it.

"You don't have to come back—we could do a 3D."

"My darling boy, this hotel barely has hot and cold running water, let alone the capacity for holographic imaging. I don't think they've updated their wi-fi in a good ten years." Prof sighed. "The whole point of coming here was to get away from technology . . . ah well, no matter. I know you wouldn't call unless the situation was dire." This was more of a question than a statement, and Jason was quick to reply.

"It's—it's dire, yeah." His heart came up into his throat suddenly, so that the words he wanted to say stuck there for a moment. "They're fighting over me, over what I did. It's . . . it looks bad."

"Oh, my dear boy," Gordon said after a moment. He sounded sad now, and worried. "I shan't ask you what's wrong, not here. Talk to your parents and apprise me of any updates. We'll get some sort of meeting set up if all parties are agreeable."

"Okay," Jason said, on a mixture of both relief and anxiety. "Thanks, Prof. I really appreciate this."

"Well you'd better, you young jackanapes," Prof said, but he was smiling, that was clear. "Really, I just don't know what this world is coming to. At any rate I'll talk to you later, here's hoping."

Jason ended the call as Dad came in the door, his lean features creased in a wide smile. "Hey, son," he said, and came forward to offer a hug. "You didn't send the car back, are you planning to stay for a while this time?"

"She knows," Jason said. Dad went still.

"Damn," he said after a few moments, and turned when House entered the kitchen. The older man didn't bother to stop; he spared them one brief glare as he strode through to the mudroom and down the steps. A moment later the back door slammed like a gunshot. Jason winced.

"I'll go see Mom," Dad said. He put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Get settled in. This is likely to be a long day. You might as well take care of things now while you have the chance."

His room was the same as always, a fact he'd always found comforting in the past. Now though, he saw only a place that hadn't changed in years—the same bed and chair, the fireplace-cleaned since his last visit, and stacked with wood; nights still got chilly on a regular basis-his old bat and mitt, some framed reports from high school days. _He_ had changed, though; maybe . . . maybe he didn't belong here now, after what he'd done. Maybe he'd be better off to go with the car, and whoever was renting it, back to Boston . . . He jumped as the link chimed with the tone he'd assigned to House. "Yes?"

"Don't go anywhere," House said. "I know you're about to fly the coop. It's an emotional response. Stop feeling and start thinking." And he was gone. Jason drew in a shaky breath. Suddenly he knew an overwhelming sense of loss. He clung to House's words, tried to make sense of them. Slowly he sat on the bed, felt the mattress with the slight sag in it, and reached back to open the window. Sunshine fell into the room, accompanied by the smells and sounds of home. Jason shoved his duffel onto the floor with his foot, lay back and stretched out, turned his face into the light.

_Stop feeling and start thinking_. Good advice, but difficult to accomplish. Still, he did his best while he tried keep his mind from from conjuring up images of Mom and Dad in the office having it out. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight. Two minutes later he was asleep, exhaustion catching up with him at last.

He woke when someone shook his shoulder. He came wide awake immediately, used to five-minute power naps stolen during long hours on the ward. "Family meeting in the living room," Mom said. Jason squinted at her, then looked at the window. The sun had moved to the other side of the house; he'd been out for a couple of hours. He levered himself up to a sitting position, swung his legs around, and kept his gaze on the floor. He knew what was coming. It didn't take long.

"_Why_?" Mom said. He could barely hear her. "_Why_, Jason? How could you think—" She stopped, went on. "I don't understand why you did this."

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. Words trembled on the tip of his tongue; he bit down on them, knowing to say them would hurt his mother deeply. "I called Prof," he said at last. "He's willing to sit in with us. I think we need his help."

"After you talk with Dad and me first," Mom said. The steel in her voice told him she wouldn't compromise. "Let's go."

"Mom." Jason ran fingers through his hair and remembered he hadn't washed it for a couple of days now. "I know you're really angry. I also know you love me. It . . . it would be . . . it would help to hear that right now."

Mom stood there looking at him. Then she reached out, took his hand in hers. "Of course I love you, and I always will," she said quietly. "I wouldn't be so mad at you otherwise." She gave him a little tug. "Come on, let's go."

Dad waited on the couch. He didn't look thrilled to be there, but when Mom sat down it was next to him. Jason took House's easy chair.

"I have some questions," Mom said. "Dad's told me the basics. Now I want particulars from you." She paused. "House was the one who told you about this?"

"Yes. But I already knew about it."

"When?"

Jason sighed softly. "First year of med school."

"Have you been writing papers since then?" Mom sat up a bit.

"Yes. On and off, not the whole time."

"And did you charge money for those papers?"

"Yes." It was more complicated than a simple answer, but he didn't feel like getting into a detailed explanation he didn't think either parent would hear, at least they wouldn't today, with emotions running high.

Mom was frowning now. "You've been earning a salary since you got your residency. Did you continue to write papers after you started getting a paycheck?"

Jason looked at the floor. "Sometimes, yes."

There was a brief silence. "You told me you used the money you made to pay for your rent and food," Mom said finally. "What happened to your salary? If you were having trouble covering your expenses you should have said something to us."

Jason pushed away a flare of anger. Hadn't he already said he didn't want to ask them for more? He glanced at Dad, who said nothing but gave a slight nod. Jason's heart sank. So he had to reveal that secret too. "I gave Dad most of my pay to put toward the student loans."

The silence was much longer this time. "And neither one of you saw fit to let me in on this little plan."

"Because you would have said no!" Jason said. He knotted his hands together between his knees; he felt about twelve years old, and hated it. In fact he hated this whole procedure. "You won't let me help out, you're both having to work too much—"

"That's our decision to make," Mom said. "Or at least I thought it was until everyone decided to go behind my back." Her voice shook, and Jason realized she was struggling not to give in to tears.

"Mom, you wouldn't even discuss it, you—you just told me how it would be, and it's meant you and Dad have struggled for years now. It's not right!" His voice was getting louder, but he didn't bother to control it. "I can help!"

"Your job is to be the best doctor you can be, and you let us worry about the rest!" Mom said. It was clear she was really angry now, as well as deeply distressed. "You can't do that if you're worrying about money, Gene and I went through that when we were in school and it made things incredibly difficult for both of us!"

"It's my education—_all_ of it," Jason said, trying one last time to get through to her. "Not just the studying, the finances too. I'm willing to take on my debts, Mom."

"Sarah," Dad said quietly. "It's right that he wants—"

"_No_." Mom stared at the floor. "Y'all can call Prof and do your best to throw emotional blackmail at me, it won't work. I'm not changing my mind."

Dad passed a hand over his face. For a moment he looked every year of his age. "Go ahead and make the call," he said quietly to Jason.

"What's the point? We'll just be wasting his time and ours." Jason got to his feet. "I'm moving out to the barn until I have to go back to Boston for the disciplinary meeting."

Mom looked up. "You don't have to do that."

Jason said nothing in reply, just went to his bedroom, grabbed his duffel and headed out.

The afternoon was warm and sunny; birds called in the woods and new green leaves rustled in the soft breeze. Jason noted it in passing as he strode down the lane, but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere. When his link beeped he growled under his breath. "_What?_"

"Hello to you too, sunshine," Mandy said. "Heard you were back in town." She sounded amused.

"Yeah, I'm back," Jason snapped. He'd had enough of being polite, even if it was an innocent party on the other end of the conversation.

"What's wrong?" The amusement had disappeared, replaced by genuine concern. "Jason, what is it?"

"It's . . . it's nothing I want to talk about right now," he said, and put in the code on the barn door. "Everything's fine."

"Liar," Mandy said. "Come over and talk to me about it. We'll do dinner."

Jason pushed the door open. "Aren't you still on tour for the last book?"

"Just got back from California a few days ago and did an interview with the Australian publisher this morning, so my schedule's clear. I'm taking a little time off. How about pizza and beer?"

Jason's mouth watered at the thought. "You don't drink beer."

"But you do." It was an old joke between them; he was glad she remembered it too. "See you when you get here." She ended the call. Jason shut the door behind him and looked around. Nothing much had changed here either—a new and much more efficient woodstove, some replacement framing in the rafters, insulated windows instead of plain glass—but everything else was as he remembered it. He moved to the platform where the band held practice. The big bed sat stripped of linens. After a moment he dropped his duffel on the floor and went to the little storage closet where sheets, pillows and blankets were kept.

Once the bed was made up he checked the cube fridge. It held a dozen beers, as usual; Dad had probably stocked up after the last band practice. Jason took one, popped the top and drank. He savored the clean, bitter taste, and sat on the bed. It was so quiet here . . . The silence was welcome, even with all the emotions and conflicting thoughts buzzing in his head. He felt some of the tension deep inside fade a bit, and let go a long breath. Time enough to think about what to do in the days ahead. For now, this was enough to go on.

He checked to see if anyone had requested the car, decided against going back to the house for a shower, and used the outside tap to get some water for a cold but effective sponge bath. A change of clothes and he was ready . . . or so he thought, until he got a good look at his hair in the rear view mirror.

It felt both odd and reassuring to pull in a few spaces down from Gordy's place. Jason parked, set the locks and smiled a little at the ingrained habit as he stepped out. From where he stood he could see Lou's, not busy at the moment, the newly-painted café tables empty under their Cinzano sunshades. He'd stop there a bit later and pick up dinner.

"Hey, Jason!" Andy closed the newslink he'd been watching and stood, a smile brightening his face. "Heard you were in town, good t'see ya! How ya been?"

"Hey Andy. Doin' okay," Jason lied. "Haven't had much time to keep my hair from taking over, can you wash it up and trim it back for me?"

"Sure thing. Have a seat over at the sink and we'll get things done."

By the end of the session Jason knew who'd died, gotten married, had kids, spent a night in the drunk tank, and the general state of the shrinking farming community. "Commuters takin' over," Andy grumbled as he ran a comb loaded with bay rum through Jason's hair. "They don't know nothin' about bein' here but they sure can bitch up a storm. Damn city people. Everyone wants t'live in the country but they don't want no farms around. Idiots!"

Eventually Jason made his escape, after a promise to stop by when he had a chance. Once liberated, he headed for Lou's and put in a call to Mandy.

"I'm in town and about to order. What do you want?"

"How about our old standard? And a side of onion rings, I could really go for those."

Jason blinked. "You could?"

"Yeah. See you shortly."

To his surprise David greeted him at the register. "Hey, _ragazzo_!" He gave Jason a warm hug. "Good to have you home, and I bet you're sick of everyone saying that." He drew back and tugged on a lock of Jason's hair. "Been to see Andy already, you got a hot date this fast?"

"Hey Dave," Jason said, smiling a little. "Dinner with Mandy, she wants the usual and some onion rings."

"Okay—come on back and help out. Dinner rush won't start for another hour."

Jason put on the apron David handed him. As he knotted the strings around his waist he knew a rush of nostalgia, bittersweet, overwhelming. How many weekend nights in high school and vacations during college had he stayed till the small hours, washing up, cleaning down, checking the register receipts, making the bank run for the night deposit? How many mornings had he stumbled in to do an hour of food prep and setup before school, get the wash started for towels and aprons, napkins and tablecloths, downing shots of espresso and going over exam material between chores? Those were good times, he knew that now; everything moving forward toward the dream of receiving his medical license . . . He washed his hands and had to smile when he lifted his elbow for the flange shutoff, sheer force of habit now.

David didn't say much as they worked together, but when the pizza came out of the oven and went into the box, accompanied by a generous portion of onion rings and a container of salad, the older man said "When you're ready to talk about whatever's wrong and you need someone to listen, I'm here." He patted Jason's shoulder. "Go enjoy Mandy's company. She misses you."

He drove down familiar streets and pulled up at Mandy's place. On impulse he called home. "I'm over at Mandy's for dinner," he said to Dad. "Not sure how late I'll be out." He hesitated. "How's Mom?"

"She's talking to Prof. He's making noises about coming back. No, I think that might be a good thing," Dad said when Jason sighed. "Anyway, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Say hello to Mandy for me."

The house looked the same as it always did, more or less—a fresh coat of paint, some new shutters and upgraded solar panels on the roof, but otherwise it was the same simple frame house Mandy had inherited on her mother's death. She'd worked hard to pay off the rest of the mortgage and make some much-needed renovations, choosing to attend school online while she worked two jobs. But her diligence had been rewarded; her last book had made the _New York Times_ bestseller list a few months ago and stayed in the top five ratings. Jason knocked on the door, put in the code, and yelled "Pizza guy!" as he always did.

"In the kitchen!"

She stood at the fridge with a bottle of beer in hand, and when she turned to him Jason felt that funny little stutter in his heart the first sight of her always caused. "Hey handsome," she said, and smiled. "Stopped off at Andy's, I see. He did a good job."

Jason set everything on the counter and came to her. She fitted into his arms as she always had, her face lifted for his kiss.

"It's a beautiful day," she said. "Let's eat outside."

The back yard was quiet, the long rays of the setting sun gliding across the garden patio. They sat at the old table Mandy had trash-picked, stripped and re-painted, with comfortable mismatched chairs and an old patched sunshade, furled now.

"Oh god, I've been dying for this ever since you called." Mandy lifted a slice out of the box and took an enormous bite, her eyes closed in bliss.

"Nice to know you only love me for my pizza," Jason said, and dumped two slices on his plate. "How's the publicity tour going?"

"I always loved you for your pizza, among other things. As for the touring, it's pure hell. I hate it. But it does sell more books." Mandy licked her fingers. "I have a fan club."

Jason popped open a beer. "Well _yeah_."

"No, not you," but she smiled at him as she set her slice down and picked up the glass of white wine she'd brought with her. "I'm getting used to all the madness, god help me." She sipped her wine. "What happened? The last time we talked you were up for the fellowship."

The relaxation Jason felt vanished. He set down his beer. "I'm facing a disciplinary committee in two weeks."

Mandy's eyes widened. After a moment she said quietly, "Tell." It was their old shorthand way of saying 'whatever you want to say is okay and I won't judge'.

So he told her all of it, until the shadows lengthened and the solar lights came on around the garden, and the air held a little chill as the sky overhead began to turn a clear, deep blue. When he was done Mandy got up. "Let's go in," was all she said.

They ended up on the couch, sitting together in front of the fire, with Mandy resting her head on his chest, as she always did. "It won't be easy for you, staying with your parents," she said. "You're welcome here, I hope you know that."

"Thanks." He played with a lock of her soft hair. "I thought you and that guitarist were together."

"Musicians are shites." She smacked his hand when he yanked gently on her hair. "It's true!" She moved back to look at him. "What about you? Are you still with that resident you met over Christmas?"

"I wasn't with her, we had a few drinks at a party and she decided we were a couple." Jason shrugged. "We weren't."

"So, we're both at loose ends." Mandy yawned. "Sounds good to me."

When she fell asleep Jason brought the throw down from the back of the couch and tucked it around the two of them, then sat there for a long time, staring into the fire, comforted by the feel of Mandy's soft, warm curves pressed close. When his link chimed he said quietly "I'm here."

"Quite a pretty kettle of fish you've cooked up for yourself, I must say," Prof said. "I'm on my way there tomorrow. And just because you're the author of all this fine foofaraw, you get to pick me up from the airport."

"Okay." He hesitated. "What do you think?"

"I shan't form an opinion at this early stage, other than to say you'd better hope the committee is in a listening mood. Very well, my dear boy. We'll see each other shortly."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	4. Chapter 3, part 1

**_(Another half-chapter today, with the other half posted this Thursday. Apologies for the fragmentation, I'm having a tough time with chronic fatigue at the moment. -B)_**

Roz finished a paragraph and took a sip of coffee. She stretched a little and shifted in her chair, aware she'd been there longer than usual; this lesson plan was a bit more complicated than usual, and she was having some trouble concentrating on it. Her back ached a bit, and her stomach growled to let her know she hadn't had breakfast yet, late as it was. She glanced at the screen. "Pause writing."

The kitchen was quiet, with just a few stray beams of sunshine filtering in from the window. Greg had been here and gone, that much was obvious—half-empty coffee pot on the warmer, with a spoon on the counter and sugar granules scattered around it. It was a familiar and somewhat reassuring sight; still, Roz rolled her eyes for form's sake and set about cleaning things up.

She'd just stirred some milk into reheated coffee when Greg burst into the kitchen. He shoved the door shut behind him, and hesitated when he saw Roz. She glanced over at him with a smile. It faded when she took in his expression. "What is it? Are you all right?"

He stood there staring at her, defiance and anxiety trembling in every line of his lean frame. After a moment he left the kitchen. She heard him move through the living room and into the study. The door slammed behind him. Roz set down her cup.

"_Dammit_," she said under her breath. Clearly he'd had a fight with someone at the Goldman place, and for him to be this upset it was most likely with Sarah. She debated calling her friend, but knew right away that would be a mistake. Undoubtedly Sarah was just as upset as Greg, and wouldn't be ready to talk about what happened. Or to listen to reason either; Sarah owned a large store of patience and forbearance, but when her temper was roused it took her some time to cool down.

Roz contemplated her cup. She took it to the sink and dumped out the contents, cleaned the pot and set to work making _espresso_. Normally she saved real coffee as a weekend treat, but she needed something to bolster her self-confidence. She made good _espresso_, the way Poppi and Nana had taught her. And making it gave Greg time to settle in and feel safe. He'd be holed up in the study now, probably sitting by the open window with a smoke in one hand and bourbon in the other, and music on the turntable.

A soft chirp by her feet told her the cat was awake and ready for second breakfast. She smiled down at Hellboy, thinking of the first two black cats with that name, as she always did. "Good morning sweetie. I'm glad you're in a good mood at least." The cat beamed up at her, his yellow eyes round and bright; no doubt he was hopeful of some fish or a few pieces of chicken.

Roz fed the cat a handful of scraps from the previous evening's roast chicken, then set about steaming milk and brewing _espresso_, careful to pack the grounds firmly. It felt comforting to go through the familiar steps in her quiet kitchen. A short time later she had two large foam-topped mugs and a plate of _biscotti_ on a tray, along with leftover bacon and the last muffin. She moved through the living room to the study, tapped the door with her foot, and elbowed the latch to come in. Music greeted her—Bessie Smith, singing "tain't nobody's business if I do". Greg sat by the window. A shot of bourbon sat on the windowsill, and next to it an ashtray with several half-smoked cigarettes crushed out. He glanced at Roz as she set the tray on the desk. Without a word she handed him one of the mugs. He accepted it, took a large gulp, dumped the shot of bourbon into it. Roz winced inwardly but said nothing. She settled in the chair at the desk and sipped her own coffee, and waited.

"Talked to your best friend lately?" Greg said at last. His voice was too loud and harsh—sure signs of agitation and fear.

"No, because I'm talking to him right now for the first time this morning," she said, and kept her own voice mild. "What happened?"

"What the hell do you think?" He set the mug aside and stared out the window.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Fuck off." He downed another long swallow of coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Roz saw he was shaking, something he was usually careful to keep hidden; that meant whatever had happened was truly alarming. At this point she had only one option of dealing with the situation that would keep it from escalating into a spill-over fight.

"Don't think I will," she said, and gave him a cool smile. "Now you've got me interested. Might as well tell me what happened or I'll pry it out of you with sex and cookies." Greg snorted and looked away. "That's your only warning, so spill your beans, buster."

"Guts," Greg said. "You mean guts." His fingers tightened on the mug handle. "No narcotics? You're slipping."

"I use what I have on hand." She opened a button on her shirt and flashed him the top of her right breast, such as it was. "There's more where that came from if you tell me what happened."

He couldn't help it—the right corner of his mouth quirked up, even as he glared at her. She could see the urge to talk to her struggling to free itself. She played with the next button and raised her brows. Greg's smile widened a bit.

"Cookies," he reminded her. Roz took a _biscotti_ from the tray. She dipped the tip in her coffee, tapped the drop, then held it up and licked her lips.

"Come and get it," she said in her best sultry tone. Greg stared at her, and then he made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"Damn women," he said, "you'll all be the death of me yet." He reached out for the biscotti but Roz held it away from him.

"Uh uh," she said, still doing her best to sound sexy. "I get to sit on your lap."

"I don't think there's enough room now," Greg said. "Unless you want to . . . accommodate me." He offered her a leer, but Roz could see his heart wasn't really in it. Her worry increased but she said nothing, just got up and walked over to him. When she eased onto his lap he took the biscotti but didn't eat it. He set it on his plate and slipped his arm around her waist, drew her close. His kiss tasted of bourbon and tobacco, and coffee. After it was done he nuzzled her hair, another clear sign of distress on his part.

"What happened?" Roz dared to ask a few minutes later. Greg sighed.

"The kid's due to meet with a kangaroo court over writing papers for other people during med school."

Roz felt a shock of surprise. "_Jason_?" She felt Greg tense, and a cascade of unwelcome knowledge filled her just from his reaction. "Sarah thinks you had something to do with it."

"I did have 'something to do with it'," Greg snapped. "He needed extra money, so I told him how I made a few dollars back in the day."

She had to be very careful here; one wrong word or move on her part and she'd lose him. "Okay," she said quietly. "But I thought he was getting paid as a resident."

"He's—he's been giving the money to Goldman, to help pay off the loans. Personally I think he's an idiot, but that's just me." The bravado in Greg's voice was belied by the way he retained his hold on her, as if he was afraid she'd pull away, get up and leave. It was one of his oldest and most pervasive fears, she knew; he was still afraid of rejection and abandonment, though it didn't show up as much as it had at the beginning of their relationship.

"And Sarah knew nothing of any of this?" Roz put her hand over Greg's, where it rested on her waist. "_Amante_, you have to get why she's mad at you—at all of you, right now anyway."

"Because she's a moron." Greg took her hand, held it tightly. "I suppose you agree with her."

"I understand her. There's a difference," Roz said. "She probably sees what happened as the three of you dismissing her. She went through a lot of that with her family. None of them ever took her seriously or believed in her."

"Come on, you know you want to take her side on this." Greg's lips brushed her hair.

"I'm not taking sides because that leads to armed camps," Roz said, and squeezed Greg's hand gently. "Give her and yourself some time to calm down. Then be ready to talk when Sarah comes to you. Or go to her if she decides to be stubborn. If she has her back up, she might wait to see what you'll do."

"Personal experience talking," Greg said. He leaned back a bit and looked into her eyes. His own held worry and annoyance, and that edge of curiosity so typical of him. "What happened?"

"We had a fight."

Greg lowered his brows. "No shit. What _happened_?"

"It was one of those things where you disagree about something small and it just sort of escalates, you know?" Roz rested her cheek on his shoulder. "One minute we were arguing about something stupid, the next we were having it out."

"Girl on girl," Greg said. "I'd like to have seen that."

"Shut up." Roz smacked him gently. "Took us a week to talk. When we did we found out both of us had been miserable and scared to death that we'd lost a close friend."

"Were there makeup kisses?" Greg flinched as Roz's slap was a little more forceful this time. "Jesus!"

"Stop it. Focus on the important part. Give yourselves some time, and then be willing to listen." Roz's amusement faded. "She's just as scared of losing you as you are of losing her. You're good friends to each other and have been for years. Neither one of you wants to throw that away."

Greg was silent for a while. "Maybe I did," he said, so quietly Roz could barely hear him.

"No," Roz said. "No, you didn't."

"You can't know that—"

"Yes I can. I know you, as much as you let me anyway." She softened the tart comment with a kiss to his throat, felt him swallow. "I know Sarah too. You're both stubborn and way too opinionated, but you love each other. You do," she said when Greg groaned. "There's nothing wrong with admitting it, _amante_. All we have in this life are the people we care about, and ourselves."

They sat there for a while, listening to Bessie sing about how nobody loves you when you down and out. "What did you tell Jason?" Roz asked finally.

"Reconsidering your neutrality already." The bitterness was unexpected. Roz drew in a breath, shocked.

"_No_," she said. "I'm trying to figure out what happened."

Greg said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a reluctant, rusty chuckle. "My practical scientist," he said, and tightened his hold gently.

"So what did you say to him?"

"What anyone says to some poverty-stricken shmuck in med school. You want to make some money, write papers."

Roz hesitated. "That's it? Nothing else?"

"Nothing else to say." Greg's tone sharpened. "I didn't tell him to use a quill from Satan dipped in babies blood, if that's what you want to know."

"Smartass." Roz sat up a bit. "I need to call some people."

"Tattling on me—"

"_No_." Roz took his face in her hands and made him look at her. "_Amante_, do you trust me?"

"Unfair question," he said. "I hate it when you ask me that."

"Stop whining. Do you trust me?"

He nodded finally and turned his gaze away, but she felt him relax just a little. Satisfied, she leaned in and brushed a kiss over his lips. "Good. I'll be back in half an hour."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	5. Chapter 3, part 2

**_(Here's part two of chapter three. Hope you enjoy it._**

**_Many thanks to my guest reviewers. I always appreciate you taking the time to read and comment, it means a lot. -B)_**

Twenty-eight minutes and seventeen seconds later, his wife re-enters the study. She resumes her seat on what he still thinks of as his good thigh, and slips an arm around his waist. "With your agreement, we'll meet with Gordon and Jason later this evening," she says quietly. Greg studies her. She looks back at him, her expression relaxed, open; no subterfuge or deception going on, but then there wouldn't be. Still, he has deep misgivings about this idea.

"The Brit's in the south of France," he points out.

"He'll be on his way here shortly." At his groan she offers a slight smile, but her gaze is still serious, her eyes a deep moss green. "You know Sarah will listen to him even when she's got a mad on."

"Wrong focus," he points out. "Mommy can be as pissed off as she likes. This is about getting the kid into the fellowship."

"I understand that, but nice of you to dumb it down for me," Roz says dryly. He hears the fugitive spark of amusement in her voice, and a little of the knot tied tight deep inside him relaxes. When he lifts his hand to her face, his fingers only tremble a little. She turns her head and kisses his palm.

"How are the tremors today?" she asks, and the genuine love and concern in her quiet words keep him from snapping at her. He hates talking about the damn shakes, but he knows she cares.

"No worse than usual." He trails his fingertips over her skin, traces the wrinkles at the corner of her eye. It always surprises him to see the signs of ageing she bears—the deepening of the lines of her face, the silver in her dark hair. "Think I'll go into work for a while."

Roz tilts her head a bit. She says nothing for a few moments, then leans in and kisses him. "I'll make you some lunch. You have my tutoring schedule in your planner, right?"

"Yes, ma'am." He brushes his lips over hers just because he can. "Of course I do, ma'am—"

"Oh, shut up," she laughs, and deepens his little touches into another kiss, this one far more satisfying for both of them.

"Forget about the schedule," he says when the kiss ends. "Let's stay in bed all afternoon and shag each other senseless."

"Can't do it today," she says against his lips, "but tomorrow we can have the whole day, not just the afternoon."

"Well . . ." He pretends to consider her offer. "I guess it'll have to do."

"I'll put it on my schedule. 'Seven to whenever, shagging my husband senseless.' Mmmm . . . sounds good." Roz busses the corner of his mouth. "Come on, show me what you want for lunch and I'll pack it for you."

Half an hour later, he's on his way into work. One of the nice things about being retired is having the time to pester the people he used to employ. Well, to be honest he still employs them, since he's on the board of directors. In fact he runs the board, and everyone knows it. But he's not titular head anymore, something he'd thought would cause problems. Actually, it's made harassing the staff that much easier. He can torment them with impunity, and leave Chase to clean up afterwards.

The afternoon is a pleasant one, warm and sunny, fulfilling the promise of the morning. At that thought Greg calls the clinic. The last thing he wants right now is to meet Sarah face to face. The call's answered within moments—he's made sure no one ever gets shunted off to voicemail without a damn good reason, such as fire, loss of multiple limbs, marauding raptors.

"Good afternoon, Southern Adirondacks-"

"Why are you answering like that when you know it's me?" he demands. "Is the shrink there?"

"Doctor House—"

"Miss Lang," he imitates her chirpy tone. "Answer my question."

"Doctor Goldman isn't here—"

"Good. Get Chase."

There's an exasperated sigh. "Doctor—"

"Chase? That you? You sound different. Damn, you finally got that sex change done! Bet you charged the whole thing to the clinic account."

A few moments of muffled words, then Chase is on the line. "House?"

"Right first time. Impressive." Greg slows down for the four-way stop, then surges across. "I'm on my way in."

"Why? We have all the current cases diagnosed correctly. You should know, you consulted on them."

"And you don't want me in the office. What's going on? Wait, I know! You and Singh finally built that still in the back yard."

"If we didn't want you here we would have changed the locks," Chase says.

"You'd move the whole thing to Mars if you thought you could get permission to open a clinic there, just to keep me out." Greg glances out the window. He's about two minutes away now. "Call a file party. Time to find new patients."

"We were planning on one this afternoon." Chase is smiling, Greg can hear it in his words.

"Liar liar, pants now at four alarms. See you in a few."

He still has the best parking spot, right next to the back door. The bike rack is half-full, which means the fellows are in attendance. Most of them live in the village and bike to work like the conscientious, health-minded young people they are. House glances over the models: one balloon-tire bomber, one mountain bike, one Schwinn three-speed that's older than he is. He sighs in mild disgust and submits to the security system's retinal scan to enter the building. They need to update their access mode, but no one really minds about the scan, though of course he complains on a regular basis about how it's scarring his maculae and giving him cataracts.

There's a patient departing for home. Greg slips into the kitchen to avoid being hugged to death by grateful family members, and to get a mug of coffee and any leftover doughnuts lurking in a box on the counter. Singh is there ahead of him, stirring milk into his cup. He nods in acknowledgment and doesn't make the mistake of glancing at Greg's hands. "Morning."

"Astute observation," Greg says. Singh dumps a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, adds another one.

"Well, it's morning somewhere," he says in a reasonable tone. "Files are ready in C-1 whenever you are." With a nod he departs, as discreet as ever.

The conference room is the original they used for years before the renovation; it's still Greg's favorite, small and comfortable, familiar. He settles in at the head of the table, props his feet on the polished wood, sips his coffee and waits for the others to arrive. They aren't far behind him. Chase shows up first, followed by Singh, and then the fellows: Steinman, Wayne and Norton. For one moment he expects McMurphy to come in behind them with a pile of mail and a sarcastic comment. He knows a moment of sadness and loss, unabated though two years have gone by since her passing. To cover it he says "About time you all showed up. I'm surrounded by slackers. Get busy."

The fellows grab files like they're life preservers. Chase and Singh sit back and wait. Predictably, Wayne is the first to come up with a comment.

"Jesus. Who vets these?" He tosses it aside. "This one's the neurological equivalent of a kid with a bean up his nose."

Steinman raises her brows. "You read the whole thing in fifteen seconds?" she wants to know. "I didn't know I was sitting down with a real genius."

"Learn something new every day," Wayne says. He glances at Greg as he reaches for another file. Greg gives him a steely stare, just to play with him. The younger man pauses, then picks up the discarded file. "Uh . . . maybe I was a little hasty."

"Don't change your mind on my account," Greg says mildly. He means every word. Wayne shifts in his seat and opens the file, his face scarlet. Steinman rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Greg moves his stare to her. "Problem, Miss Granger?"

"Yeah," she says in that forthright manner he finds intensely annoying and a valued asset at the same time; she reminds him of Cameron and Chandler, naïve and defensive, but ready to stand her ground regardless. "You encourage him to act that way because you think it's funny." She opens her file. "I think it's stupid."

"That stick up your ass is stupid too," Norton says. He slides a finger down the spines of the file folders and pulls one out. "You'd feel so much better if you got rid of it."

"Now, children," Chase says, calm and unruffled. His blue eyes gleam with amusement. "We're choosing patients, not duking it out on the playground, so let's get to it."

Greg half-listens as the process begins. Despite the personality conflicts, maybe even because of them, this is an effective team; Chase did a good job of selecting them. They really don't need him here, a fact that gives him a great deal of satisfaction, along with a certain wistfulness for the old days. He misses being in the center of it all, sometimes; the sense of excitement at finding clues, the adrenaline rush of an epiphany, even the cold fear of a wrong turn—it all meant he was right, what he was doing was right, and the people around him knew it.

"Any insights from the Central Scrutinizer?" Chase wants to know. Greg pulls his thoughts away from the past and picks up his mug. He really shouldn't be drinking coffee, it makes the shaking worse, but fuck it—he's lived this long, he can do as he damn well pleases. The mug wobbles just a little but makes it to his lips without spilling. He takes a long sip, savors the dark-roast taste, thinks of Diane Wirth and her office stuffed with paperwork and that pristine coffeemaker. Her successor drinks herbal tea; it's a sacrilege he can hardly bear to contemplate.

"Wayne's pick, worth looking into. The family doctor wouldn't have referred the girl to us if it was something easily figured out. I know that doc, one of the few decent GPs around. Steinman's choice, sounds like some kind of VD hidden in the crevices. So to speak."

"The patient said he never—" Steinman begins.

"You know, we really should have 'EVERYBODY LIES' chiseled above the doorway to this hellhole," Greg says, talking over her. "Chase, have Lang look into prices and get me a quote."

Chase gives him a nod, unflappable after years of similar comments. Greg continues, pinning Norton with a cool stare. This is the fellow he's really interested in. "Norton's offering, now that's a very interesting case. Especially considering you planted it in the stack yourself."

Norton looks surprised, but only for a moment. "Yeah, I did." There's no attempt at a lie. "I think this patient needs our help, but he's got no insurance, no way to pay us."

"This isn't a fucking charity," Greg snaps. "Who is this guy to you? Family?"

"I met him during my residency. He was diagnosed with ME, but I think there's more going on." Norton leans forward a little. "A lot more. I want to know. So does he. Isn't that what we do here? Find out what's going on?"

Greg sets down his mug. "How much is the bet?"

Norton blinked. "Uh—what?"

"Come on, how much? A grand? Two? This one goes back a long way, so I'm thinking maybe three or even four thousand by now." Greg looks down his nose at Norton. "Compounded interest too, no doubt."

"How . . ." Norton touches the file and sighs. "I really do want to know, but I'd give up the money if it meant the patient had some peace of mind. I'd rather win the bet though."

"That's very noble of you." Greg doesn't bother to hide his amusement.

"I got a ton of student loans," Norton says. He sounds angry now, all wounded injustice. "I'd rather get that load off my back, you think that's wrong somehow?"

Greg says nothing at first. "No," he says finally, though he isn't speaking just to Norton now. "No, it's not wrong." He rubs his thigh, then moves his feet off the table. "Take the case. First one to figure it out gets double the money, because everyone chips in on this." He ignores the collective groan and gets to his feet. "Find another two cases. I'll be in my office. Don't bother me unless there's booze or hot chicks involved."

He makes good his escape and sits at his desk for the rest of the afternoon, with the window open on the beautiful day, a stack of new journals to read through, his wife's excellent lunch to savor, and music playing in the background. None of it really helps much, but he's still glad he's got the distractions there all the same.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	6. Chapter 4

**_(Another short chapter. I'll try to get another one in on Thursday if possible. My apologies for chapter confusion on my side of things-this is officially chapter FOUR, not five as I mentioned in review replies last week. -B)_**

Jason sat back in the corner of the couch. The house was quiet now; he watched the flames burning low in the fireplace and thought idly about banking the embers, a chore that had been second nature for years before he'd left for school. Of course nothing would happen if he didn't, the fire would just go out . . . but he'd caused enough trouble for a lifetime, no point in adding another few points to his total. With a sigh he got up and banked the fire, replaced the screen, went into the kitchen and got a fresh beer. On his return he settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. Exhaustion tugged at him, but his brain wouldn't stop replaying the events of the last two hours.

("_First of all, everyone here must understand this meeting is not about assigning blame. We're here to discover exactly what's happened, how we all see it from our own points of view, and how we can proceed to a better outcome."_

_Jason stared down at his hands. Prof could say whatever he wanted, but the real reason for this meeting was to find a way to fix a mistake and save his parents investment. Not that he blamed Mom and Dad; they'd dumped a lot of money into his education and they had an expectation of a reasonable return, in the form of his medical license. He'd put that investment in jeopardy now, so of course they were upset . . . and disappointed in him too. He winced at the thought. Maybe he wasn't as different from his real mom and dad as he liked to think. Maybe he was a loser and nothing could change that. It wasn't the first time he'd faced that possibility; there had been plenty of nights during med school and residency when he'd woken in a cold sweat from memories of his childhood, convinced he was a complete fraud who had no business in any institution of higher learning__._

"_Jason," Mom said__, and the ache in her voice stabbed at him. He didn't look at her. "I know you're worried, we all are__—"_

"_You don't know," he said to the floor. "None of you know anything." He felt as if he was back in the lockup at Juvy, twelve years old, dirty, cold and hungry, surrounded by adults who saw only a troublemaker, a screwup. It was a perverse point of view, the rational side of his mind knew quite well the people in this room loved and cared about him, but he couldn't help the emotions welling up deep inside. _

"_That's why we're here, dear boy," Prof said.__ His image wavered a bit, then steadied. "You're quite right, we don't know. That's where you come into the picture. We'd like you to tell us what happened, and how we can help."_

_Jason said nothing. He'd gotten himself into this mess, he'd get himself out somehow; he'd always known how to survive, this was no different. He drew his silence around him like a cloak of invisibility, remembering how it had served him in the past. _

"_If you shut down,__"__ Dad said, "if you try to do this on your own, nothing will change."_

"_Nothing's going to change whatever we say here__," Jason said. "I wrote the papers, the committee will kick me out of my residency."_

"_It doesn't have to be that way," Mom said. She'd tried to talk to him earlier that day, but he couldn't open to her, couldn't bear the thought of hurting her even more, or having her hurt him again. "Jason, please. Let us in so we can help."_

"_Why isn't House here?" Jason asked. No one answered right away._

"_He was invited," Dad said. "He decided not to show. Roz called and said she would stay with him."_

"_She chose the only logical course of action open to her," Prof said. "Undoubtedly her husband would see her joining us as an act of betrayal, because for once he isn't thinking any more clearly about this situation than the rest of you."_

"_And just what is that remark supposed to mean?" Mom wanted to know._

"_Very well, since you want me to lay it out for you simply, here it is: _none_ of you are _thinking_. You are all viewing a set of actions and consequences through a subjective lens rather than an objective one, and it's playing merry hell with your ability to find a working solution. Now, let's turn our minds and not just our hearts to the situation at hand, and see what can be done.")_

"Okay if I join you?"

Dad stood by the couch. In the flickering light he looked tired, his strong features half-hidden in shadow. After a few moments Jason nodded. Dad sat next to him, leaned back into the cushions. He extended his hand. Jason hesitated, then offered him the beer. Dad took a long swallow and gave back the bottle, to Jason's surprise.

"You're long since old enough to make your own decisions about what you drink and when," Dad said. He stretched a bit and groaned softly. "Shoulder's killin' me."

"I thought you had someone look at that," Jason said.

"It's just me getting older. I put moist heat on it, Mom massages it and it's better for a while." Dad tipped his head back with care. "You didn't say much tonight."

"Nothing to say." Jason sipped his beer.

"Bullshit. You had plenty to say, you just figured we didn't want to hear it." There was no animosity in Dad's voice. "It's easy to shut down and push people away. Take it from someone who knows, it won't work."

"I already hurt you and Mom. I don't want to hurt her or you any more." Jason gave the beer bottle a slow twirl, trying to ignore the pain in his heart. "What's gonna happen is gonna happen."

"Goddamn it. I thought your mother was stubborn." Dad sighed. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe instead of expecting the worst you could actually look for a solution that will get you out of hot water?"

"You'd like that." The words came out before he could stop them.

"Yeah, I would. But not for the reason you're implying. I'll take my lumps with Mom on my own terms, and we'll deal with things in our own way. I'm not gonna use you to solve my problems."

"_Dad_," Jason said, and swallowed. "I'm sorry."

After a moment Dad's hand came to rest on Jason's back. His touch was warm and comforting. He didn't say anything, just rubbed his thumb gently over tight muscles.

"I don't know how anything could change," Jason said after a while, and closed his eyes. They burned with tiredness.

"You're stuck in a fixed point of view. Tonight you had several others to choose from, but you're so locked into your own that you pushed them away. It was a mistake." Dad spoke softly, but every word was distinct and strong. "And our mistake was in pushing you too hard, too fast. Right now you're too damn tired to work on anything besides a good long sleep. I suggest you go to bed. You don't have to walk all the way back to the barn, Mom made up your room for you."

"You think in the morning everything will be all better?" He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his words. Dad gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"I think once you've had a chance to rest and get your bearings, you'll be able to consider what's been said and decide what to do next." Dad gave him a little pat. "Go get some sleep, and when you're ready we'll talk."

It felt weird to be in his old bedroom. Mom had built a fire for him to warm the room, and the bedclothes were turned down to reveal freshly laundered sheets and blankets. She'd even left a plate of cookies and a cup of water on his nightstand, along with a stack of battered paperbacks. Guilt swamped him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't deserve any of this after the way he'd acted . . . With a sigh he stripped off his shirt and jeans, removed his socks, and slipped under the covers. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to relax a little. This felt reassuring, familiar; he closed his eyes and was surprised to find tears welling. He wiped them away, impatient at his weakness. Crying solved nothing, all it did was give you a headache. They kept coming though, so after a while he just gave up and let them fall.

He lay in the soft, flickering darkness a long time, while salty tears slid down his cheeks and chilled his skin.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	7. Chapter 5

May 7th

_Gravity is working against me_

_and gravity wants to bring me down _

_I'll never know what makes this man_

_with all the love his heart can stand_

_dream of ways to throw it all away . . . _

Gene sipped his beer and stared into the fire. It was another chilly evening. They'd put covers over the garden plants and brought in the herbs and flowers from the front porch to beat the inevitable freeze, portended by clear skies with stars like diamonds. Now he sat in the quiet house and listened to his wife putting the kitchen to rights. He wondered what he would say to her when they went up to bed later. She hadn't spoken to him since Jason had returned home; not a hostile silence exactly, but he knew there was a reckoning ahead. If he was honest, he resented the fight waiting for them both. He understood Sarah's anger, but it still pissed him off no end.

"Hey." The object of his thoughts perched on the end of the couch, watching him. She looked tired; her hands were red from washing dishes, something she insisted on doing though they had a perfectly good dishwasher. "It's late."

"Yeah." Gene finished his beer and stood. A part of him quailed at what lay ahead, but there was no way around the gate except to go through it. He didn't even have their son's presence as an excuse; Jason had moved out to the barn after spending a day observing the tension between his parents. "I'll be right up."

He felt it was to his credit that he didn't linger in the kitchen, but went up the steps as if it was a normal evening, a spring night cool enough to allow him to spoon his wife and enjoy the feel of her soft skin, her thighs next to his, the familiar cloud of curls against his cheek.

She was waiting for him when he came in. He closed the door behind him but made no move to sit. "Gonna have it out?" he asked, and kept his voice mild, though he longed to shout at her to stop this. Sarah looked at him, her expression unreadable.

"You think I'm being unreasonable," she said at last. "You think this is a big fuss over nothin'." She made an impatient gesture. "Sit down. I won't bite."

Gene stayed where he was. "I see your point of view," he said. Honesty was the only thing that would work. "But I won't bullshit you, Sare. Yeah, I think this is you freaking out over something . . ." He tried to find the words. "Over the wrong something. I don't know how else to put it."

"If you think I'm angry about what Jason did, you'd be right," she said. "But what you did is worse." She gave him a hard stare. "We've talked before about this wild hair you have up your ass about protecting me."

He'd known this would be first on her list. "I wasn't—"

"_Don't_." It was a flat, cold warning. "Don't go there, just don't."

"I'm not! I wasn't protecting you, dammit!" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't—I don't know what the hell I was doing. Trying to avert a disaster. I knew neither one of you would give way on this."

"That amounts to the same thing, only you were trying to protect both of us." She didn't move her gaze from his face. "Why didn't you tell him to stop? _Why_?" The anguish in her voice stabbed at him. "We had things set up to pay off the damn loans, they're not Jason's responsibility—"

"You decided that," Gene snapped. "Jason tried to talk with you about it, I did too. You—you just made up your mind that his only contribution was to go to school when you _knew_ the kid felt guilty about the money he was costing us and wanted to help out!" He glared at her. "This is not about him, not all of it anyway. This is about you."

"If you mean my being a good mom, fine, I'll take that on," Sarah said without hesitation. Gene groaned.

"Just because your mom and dad never—"

"This is not about them!"

"Yes it _is_!_ God, _Sare! This is _all_ about them, and what they never did for you! So now you feel like you have to give with both hands and damn what anyone else wants—"

"Don't you lay all this on me!" Sarah's voice shook. "Don't you _dare_! Writing papers is wrong, you _know_ it's wrong, and going behind my back, taking his salary to pay off those goddamn loans is wrong too!"

"We'll get to that part of it after we look at why you fought so hard to keep Jason from contributing," Gene said. He felt the sharpness of his words, knew they would cut and wound. "He wouldn't have felt the need to do what he did if you'd let him help out."

There were tears in her eyes now, though she didn't let them fall. "So I'm the bad guy," she said after a few moments.

"Making this good guy-bad guy won't work." Gene leaned against the door. "It's not that simple. But yeah, your decision started all this. You didn't listen, Sare. Dammit, you didn't _listen_! You get pig-headed about helping people, you give too much, expect too much of yourself! There's no reason why Jason couldn't help pay his loans. You and I did. We lived through it!"

"It was hard as hell, living through it. I didn't want our boy to have to endure going without, he's done enough of that already." She spoke quietly, but Gene heard the pain and flinched from it. "So I am the bad guy after all—"

"No!" he heard his voice rise. "Stop it! Stop making me wrong for trying to figure this out! You don't get a free pass on this! Jason and I both tried to sit down with you, talk about finances and how to deal with them and you—you just laid down the law, you wouldn't consider any other viewpoint but your own!"

A knock on the door startled them. After a moment Gene moved away and opened it. Gordon stood there in his pajamas and bathrobe, hair tousled. "If the two of you must indulge in a barney, I insist on being brought in as referee. But please do let us have it out under more civilized circumstances," he said mildly. "Office, five minutes."

Once they were settled, Sarah and Prof with steaming cups of tea, Gene with a bottle of beer he'd chosen out of pure defiance, Prof said "All right then, let us get down to the nitty gritty, as we used to say back in the day." He sat back in his chair and stirred his tea. "Sarah, we'll begin with you."

"So it is my fault," she said with some bitterness. Gordon set aside his spoon.

"Tut tut," he said mildly. "My dear, that tactic is quite beneath you. You will cease the attempt to cast blame at once."

She had the grace to blush. "I wasn't—"

"Yes you were." Prof's tone was quiet but inexorable. "I understand the temptation, but it will not avail you and only work to your detriment." He paused to sip his tea. "What is required here is a willingness to listen. Judging by the reactions you're drawing from each other, doing so involves a great deal of fear concerning what either one of you might hear."

Gene took a long swallow of beer and said nothing. Prof glanced at him. "Very well then," he said. "Let's begin at the beginning, shall we? How did all of this start?"

"When Jason was accepted into med school, we had a family meeting," Gene said. He didn't want to talk about this; he could feel his palms getting cold and sweaty. "Jason was worried about how much tuition would cost over the long haul."

"You say Jason was worried," Gordon said when Gene said nothing more. "What about you? Were you anxious about finances as well?"

"Yes," Gene said simply. Sarah glared at him.

"You never said anything!"

"I didn't think I needed to. We knew it would be tough, putting our son through school. We discussed how we felt about it at the beginning, if you remember." Gene stared down at the bottle in his hands. "Jason came to me and said he wanted to do something about helping out. He said he'd tried to talk with you but you shut him down."

"No I didn't," Sarah said. She set her cup on its saucer. "I told him his job was to study and we'd take care of the financial side of things."

"Like I said, you shut him down."

"Standing at an impasse won't help either," Gordon said. "Sarah my love, put yourself in Jason's place."

She didn't want to, that was plain. She struggled with the idea for some time. Gene took a long pull of beer, while Prof sipped his tea. "I'd be upset that my offer was rejected," she said with clear reluctance.

"And what else?" The steel in Gordon's quiet voice demanded an answer.

"If you're trying to get me to say I'd find a way around it, fine, I would!" Sarah folded her arms and looked away. "That's different."

"No it _isn't_," Gene said, exasperated beyond his ability to keep quiet. Gordon spared him a glance.

"Eugene," he said softly. It was a warning, despite the gentle tones. Gene looked away. "While I deplore your husband's outburst, I find myself forced to agree with him somewhat. Your hypothetical situation isn't substantially different from Jason's very real one."

"Except I never had a parent who cared," Sarah said, and now the bitterness was plain. "If someone, anyone, had offered to help me out I would have jumped at the chance to take it." She darted a glance at Gene, but he held his tongue. Prof nodded.

"Quite understandable. But Jason is not of the same opinion. Why do you expect him to think as you do?"

That struck her hard. She blinked. "I—no I don't."

"You do," Gordon said politely, and said nothing more. Sarah drew in a breath. She was pale now. Gene waited to see if she'd accept it.

"I just . . ." She faltered. "I didn't . . . I wanted something better for him."

"As all good parents do," Prof said. "But in this case, your young man stated his own preference. Knowing Jason, it was a reasoned and valid choice, and you invalidated it." He sighed softly. "Gene has already told you much of this, but apparently you need to hear it from another source, so I'll oblige. You are one of the most generous and compassionate people I've ever known, my darling girl of the auburn curls. It is a rare and beautiful trait. If more of us owned it, the world would be a far better place. And yet it sometimes blinds you to what other people truly desire. You can't see what they need, because what _you_ need is in the way. And that, my love, is very selfish indeed, unintentional though it may be."

She did cry then, the slow, silent tears that meant she was deeply hurt. Neither Gene nor Gordon said anything, though it took all of Gene's self-control not to go to her. She wouldn't welcome comfort, not yet; not for some time, probably.

"Why is it wrong to say no to what Jason wanted to do?" she said after a painful silence. "We have the means to keep him from having to face years of debt."

"He can make that choice for himself," Gordon said. "As you well know, my dear girl. He's not twelve now, much as you might wish it."

Sarah looked down at her hands and didn't say anything more. Prof set down his cup. "I think we'll stop here for tonight. We can discuss Eugene's motivations in the morning after we've slept on what's been said tonight."

"There's something to look forward to," Gene muttered. He finished off the now-warm beer and got to his feet.

"I'll—I'd better stay down here tonight," Sarah said. Gene paused. This wasn't unexpected, but he'd planned to say something first.

"I'll take the couch," he said quietly. "You know it bothers your hip when you sleep downstairs." It was the closest he could come to saying 'I love you' at the moment. Sarah bit her lip but said nothing, only nodded.

They parted ways in the silent living room, with only the crackle of the fire for parting commentary.

_twice as much ain't twice as good_

_and can't sustain like one-half could_

_it's wantin' more that's gonna send me to my knees_

_gravity stay the hell away from me_

_gravity has taken better men than me_

_now how can that be? _

_just keep me where the light is . . . _

'_Gravity', John Mayer_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	8. Chapter 6, part 1

**_(Another short chapter, but I'll post the second part on Thursday._**

**_The knee surgery has been put on hold for a while due to circumstances beyond my control. I'm working to get things dealt with, but in the meantime I'll keep writing. -B)_**

_May 8th_

Sarah crept down the stairs, careful as always to step on the outer edge of the treads to keep them from creaking. Her first glance into the living room revealed Gene was already up, the pillows and blanket in disarray. So he'd had a bad night too . . . She felt a stab of guilt as she headed into the kitchen, to stop at the doorway.

Gene stood at the counter with a pitcher of water to fill the coffeemaker. In the early morning light it was possible to see his lean features were drawn, the lines around his eyes and mouth etched a little deeper; his thick, greying hair was tousled, in need of a good trim as usual. He glanced at her but said nothing. Sarah moved toward him, stopped. "Good morning," she said. It took all her courage to speak. Gene didn't answer. He poured the water into the coffeemaker and turned on the grinder, his back to her. It wasn't until she saw the slump in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled, that she realized he was scared.

Much against her will, a wave of tenderness moved through her. She went to him and with some hesitation, put her hand on his shoulder. She said nothing, just let it rest there. A tremor went through him at her touch, but he didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry." She could barely hear him. He shut off the grinder and felt for the start button, punched it blindly. Sarah reached out, took his hand in hers, guided it to her waist. He turned to her then, his arms coming up to bring her close. "I'm sorry," he said again. He was shaking and she could feel his pulse rate was up, his breathing shallow.

_Anxiety attack_, Sarah thought. She slipped her arms around him, felt him shudder once, twice. Still silent, she moved him to a seat at the breakfast counter and eased him down. He hung onto her like a drowning man. She kept her hold firm but gentle. It took a few minutes but eventually he relaxed a bit, his breath deepening. When he spoke his voice was more steady, though she still heard the echo of pain in his words.

"I never wanted any of this . . . I never meant to lie to you, Sare. It just happened."

From anyone else this would have likely have been a blatant attempt at emotional manipulation, but Sarah knew Gene wouldn't do it. He was much like their son that way; while both men weren't exactly forthcoming, they didn't shy away from being honest about what they felt, and rarely played head games. However, she knew a pre-emptive strike when she saw one.

"You'll still have to talk with Prof and me," she said as gently as she could. Gene let out a breath and buried his face in her hair.

"I don't know if I can."

Sarah held onto him for a while longer, until he'd calmed down a bit more. Then all she said was "You get the coffee, I'll heat up some cinnamon rolls."

They were into second helpings when Gordon appeared. It was clear he'd only been awake a short time, though he was dressed for the day. Without comment he got a teabag from the canister, added milk and the tea to a mug, poured in some just-boiled water from the carafe, and left everything to steep while he availed himself of the warm cinnamon rolls in the pan. Sarah knew well Prof was not a morning person. She said nothing, just made sure he had what he needed.

They ate in silence. When Gordon was done he took his plate and cup to the sink and washed up, making a quick, tidy job of it as he always did. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and went out of the kitchen, to pause at the doorway. "I'll be in the office when you're ready," he said, and left them. Sarah glanced at Gene. He stared down at the remains of a roll; his fingers tightened on the handle of his coffee mug. He looked sad and lonely. She felt like a tug-of-war rope, as love and anger pulled her toward opposing responses.

"We have to do this," she said quietly. "You know we do."

"_I_ have to," he said. It was a correction; she heard the emphasis on the first word. After a moment he stood.

When they entered the office, Prof was waiting for them. "Do have a seat," he said. Sarah sat down but Gene remained standing. Gordon looked up at him. "You're not reporting your mistakes to a superior officer, you know," he said mildly.

"If you want me to talk, this is how it gets done," Gene said harshly. He was shaking again. "Let's just get this over with."

"Very well," Gordon said. "When you're ready, tell us what happened."

Gene stared out the window. He took a breath. "I—"

"The kid came to us for help," Greg said from the doorway. Sarah jumped and turned to face him. Gene did the same. From the fleeting look of surprise in his eyes it was plain he hadn't expected their visitor.

"Doctor House," Gordon said, unperturbed. Sarah couldn't be sure if he'd seen Greg arrive, or just knew it was inevitable that he'd show up. "I see your _penchant_ for choosing the less-traveled path is as strong as ever."

"Couldn't concentrate on my game." At Prof's inquiring look Greg rolled his eyes. "_Candy Crush Forty: the Sugar Apocalypse._ All the cool kids are hacking the 3D."

"I don't need your help," Gene said, still in that harsh tone Sarah hardly ever heard him use. "Fuck off."

"Hey, is that any way to talk to your fellow conspirator?" Greg leaned against the doorframe. "I'm hurt."

"All right, that's enough," Sarah said before Gene could answer. She would not submit to an escalation of tensions. "Get in here and sit down."

"Yes ma'am," Greg said. He sauntered into the office and perched a lean hip on the corner of her desk. "Gonna smack our piddies with a ruler just because we didn't ask your permission to help the rug rat. BO-ring."

"That will do," Prof said in a quelling tone. "Gene is offering his account of events. I suggest you resist the urge to mock, as you indulge in it to both your detriment as well as Eugene's."

"Ooohh, 'Eugene'." Greg widened his eyes in an expression of fake horror, then made a gesture as if zipping his mouth closed. Gene sighed.

"Can I just get on with this?"

"You may," Prof said. Greg leaned in, clearly pretending intense interest. Gene glared at him, then looked out the window once more.

"Jason came to me when he entered med school. He'd tried to talk with both Sarah and me about finances, but—" Gene hesitated. "Anyway—he wouldn't back down on helping pay for his tuition. I tried to talk to him, but he . . . he was just as determined to help as his mother was to keep him from doing it."

"So that's your excuse," Sarah said. She couldn't help it, the words just came out before she could stop them.

"It's not an excuse!" Gene folded his arms, hands gripping his elbows tight enough to make his knuckles white. "I did my best to get him to back down. And if you remember, I did the same with you and neither one of you would listen to me."

The import of his words hit hard. Sarah saw things from his point of view, though she didn't want to—he'd been caught much as she was now, between love and anger, pulled in opposing directions, unsure of what to do.

"The kid wanted to help," Greg said. "You should be damn grateful."

"You had no business telling him to do something you know is wrong," Sarah said. She looked at Greg, but said it to Gene as well.

"Gunney didn't tell him, I did," Greg said. He gave Sarah a challenging, icy glare. "Your hubby attempted to keep the peace. I told him it was a shit move from the start, you'd never handle it. What do you know, I'm right again."

"And I'm not supposed to notice when no one's listening to me?" Sarah snapped. "Y'all made an end-run around everything I said!"

"The technical term used by touchy-feely Jungian quacks like you is 'karma's a goddamn bitch'," Greg said without an ounce of humor. "You weren't listening to anyone, so why should we listen to you?"

"_I_ listened!" Gene shouted. Sarah jumped, shocked by the sudden fury on display. "I listened to all of you, I tried to get you to listen to me but none of you would! It was—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

"It was like your childhood," Prof said softly. Gene glared at him.

"_Yes! _Everyone fought all the time and never listened to each other and I _hated_ it! I hate _this!_ But you pushed me into it, dammit! Jason said—" He stopped, swallowed, went on. "He said if we wouldn't let him help, he'd—he'd leave school, get a job—he was serious, he was gonna throw away everything he'd accomplished—I couldn't—"

"You didn't tell me that," Sarah said. She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut.

"First time I've heard this too," Greg said. He gave Gene an appraising stare. "Bet you weren't supposed to tell."

"I'm done with secrets," Gene said. Bitterness replaced anger. "Secrets have been at the bottom of every fucking disaster in my life, and I've been stupid enough to keep them anyway. Fuck that, I've had enough. Enough, do you hear me? Are you listening now? You want the truth, fine. Here it is then. I did what I could to save our son from making a mistake. I lied by omission to you, and to him too. It was wrong, it was stupid! I did it because I love you both and there—there wasn't—I couldn't see any way out of a fight if I said anything. But I should have told the truth and let you and Jason have it out. Anything would have been better than this clusterfuck." There were tears on his cheeks now. He swiped at them and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Sarah stood. Everything was happening too fast.

"Out." Gene left the office. Sarah watched him go and struggled against the urge to stop him.

"Relax," Greg said. "He'll head into town, get his hair cut and spend a few hours nursing a beer and a couple of racks at the bar." He looked down at his hands. "I suppose that's my fault too."

Sarah blinked. She stared at Greg, took in the hunched shoulders, the downbent head, and knew not all of it was play-acting. "No," she said quietly. "It isn't."

"I'll tell both of you again, assigning blame is not the point," Prof said. He sighed. "Dear oh dear, this is quite the emotional minefield and here's me out of tea." He stood also and picked up his cup. "I suggest we adjourn to the kitchen and do second rounds before we proceed further."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	9. Chapter 6, part 2

_**(Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, commented and followed or added this story to their favorites list. As always, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. -B)**_

Greg sits in the Goldman kitchen, polishing off a third cinnamon roll. He's missed his shrink's excellent ways with baked goods; since he has no guarantee he'll get any in the future, he's taking advantage of access while he has it. The Brit is making another cup of tea; the man must have enormous bladder capacity. Sarah stands at the window, looking out on the resplendent morning.

"Jason hasn't come in yet," she says. "I haven't seen him for two days now."

"He's old enough to wipe his own ass," Greg says, just to be a jerk. It's something he's good at, something guaranteed to piss people off every time, whether they admit it or not. It's a good gauge of how much tolerance he'll get, how long someone will last before they go off on him.

"I know that," Sarah says with something of a snap. "I don't expect him to call in every five minutes." She cradles her cup of coffee in her hands. "I'm his mom. I'm allowed to be worried."

"Didn't say you weren't." He sips his coffee, even though it's cooling rapidly now. "He'll show up when he's ready."

"Maybe I'd like to see him sometime sooner than next month," Sarah says.

"That's a substantial assumption on your part. Maybe the kid just needs some time off."

"Maybe my son doesn't want to face the consequences of his actions—"

"That is quite enough," the Brit says. His tone is polite, but there's no arguing with it.

"Just a friendly conversation," Greg says. "Just an exchange of viewpoints."

"Both of you are spoiling for an utterly meaningless barney and I'll have none of it, not when you're meeting with me. What you do on your own time is your business."

"I don't want to fight," Sarah says quietly. "I'm—can't I just be worried about my husband and my son?" She sighs softly.

"They'll be back," Greg says. It comes out hard, too loud. "Quit wallowing."

That earns him a direct look from the Brit. The look says _you will stop now_. It's not a threat or a challenge, it's a statement of fact that will be followed up, no doubt about it. Greg backs down a bit because though he'd never admit it, he holds a reluctant respect for the older man. "I'm just saying. No offense."

"None taken," Sarah throws right back at him. "Because it's not true. So shut up."

"Oh, very well. Since you've decided to skip the niceties let's begin as you mean to go on, " the Brit says. "Perhaps you'd tell us your part in the history of these proceedings, Doctor House."

"No point." Greg takes a last bite of roll and reaches for another one. "The shrink's already made up her mind. I'm the villain of the piece."

"If I thought you were really a villain you wouldn't be sitting in my kitchen, eating my rolls and doing your best to piss me off," Sarah says. "What you did was wrong, but that doesn't make you bad."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Gee, _thanks_," he says with all the sarcasm he can muster.

"I've worked with you for twenty years, Gregory. Pushing me to hate you is not gonna work." She sips her tea. In the morning light it's possible to see the grey in her hair. The rest of it has lightened, the color not as richly carroty as before; now she has a nimbus of pale auburn and strawberry-blonde curls to frame her fair face, her forehead, nose and cheeks sprinkled with freckles from years of working outdoors in summer. He's checked her for melanomas but she's been wise enough to use a hat and sunscreen over the years, so her redhead's creamy skin is in good shape. Somehow that knowledge hurts him more than anything else, in some nameless way he doesn't want to examine.

"Hate might be a little strong, at least for now anyway," he says out loud. "You'll hold back until you get the whole story, and then you'll make your ultimate judgment. I've worked with you for twenty years too, you know."

"I'm trying not to do that," she says simply. The answer is unexpected and startles him into looking at her.

"So you're going for all this 'act, not react' propaganda," he says. "Impressive. Let's see if you can do it." He takes a big bite of roll and chews loudly, swallows plenty of air with it, and lets out a loud burp. "It's none of your damn business what the kid gets up to at school."

Silence falls in the kitchen, aside from the sound of birds chirping in the back yard and the wheezy chug of the washer in the mudroom, working on another load of sheets. Greg knows whatever happens here, eventually Sarah will take the laundry out to the line and hang everything to dry in the sun and wind. He steals a quick glance at the Brit, who sits on a stool stirring his tea. The other man gives him a mild look but doesn't speak.

"Nothing to say?" Greg says finally. He won't admit to sweaty palms.

"I don't agree." Sarah is firm but again, no overt emotion. He can hear it deep in her words though, the longing to bitch him out.

"I'll just bet you don't. He's old enough to make his own decisions."

"Decisions you were supposed to help him make!" She lets slip some anger now. "You're not just a fellow male, you're a mentor! That carries some responsibility—"

"It carries what I say it does, not your morality, not your rules!" he shoots back. "You shut down any conversation the kid tried to have with you about the finances—how many times do I have to say it? He came to me as a last resort, he knew this would get you all het up but he wanted—"

"You should have said no! You of all people-" Sarah faces him then, and he is shocked to see he's wrong, she's not angry. She's desperate. "I won't say more, you know I won't."

She's referring to his own experiences in school with being expelled for cheating. That she's keeping his revelations confidential, even though they've been on the public record since they occurred, tells him that as mad as she is at him, she really does care. "Say whatever the fuck you want," he growls at her. "What I did hasn't been a secret for almost fifty years now."

"If you're referring to Greg's cheating and expulsion from school, yes, I already know," the Brit says. "Continue."

"Fine." Sarah frees a hand, runs it through her curls. She snags one, twists it around her finger, an absent gesture Greg knows means she is deeply distressed. "You of all people should understand the consequences of that behavior, and yet you not only encouraged Jason, you showed him how to do it! And then you—you tell me it's none of my business—I'm his mom, it's _completely_ my business! If you're not going to take your mentorship seriously—"

"Who says I didn't?" He can't let that go unchallenged. "Because I didn't set up junior's feeding schedule the way you like it—"

"Come on, you know I don't get like that with him! But this—" Her sea-grey eyes are stormy. "This is not me being unreasonable, dammit!"

"This is you being a control freak," Greg says. "Don't bother to deny it—"

"And this is both of you reacting," the Brit cuts in sharply. "You must try harder than this!"

There's another little silence after that. Greg knows what he wants to say, but he's not willing to get slapped down; Sarah's looking like she's unsure of her ground now. After a few moments the Brit sighs and sets down his mug.

"You are both perfectly capable of self-discipline in this matter. The only reason you continue to wind each other up is because you both find a perverse satisfaction in doing so." He moves to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sarah wants to know.

"I shall follow in your estimable husband's footsteps and _ne in oppidum_, if I may put it in rather basic Latin. I'm due for a trimming, both at the barber's and at the pool table. You are both now officially free to have at it. When you're ready to reason instead of bashing each other with sledgehammers, apprise me and we'll talk." And with that he's gone.

Of course this has a chilling effect, something the Brit knows quite well, undoubtedly. Greg stares down at the half-eaten roll in the pan; Sarah looks out the window and tugs on the curl wrapped around her finger.

"You wanted me to be the kid's mentor," Greg says at last. He measures his words with care.

"Yes. Both Gene and I wanted it."

"You know my history, what happened at school, work . . ." He breaks off a chunk of roll, munches it. "You know you can't trust me."

"Oh bullshit. I have every reason to trust you. Yes I do, dammit!" she snaps when he shakes his head. "But this—" She faces him full on. This is not his shrink or Jason's mom speaking now, this is his friend—his great friend, the one who has saved him from himself on several notable occasions. He knows even now if he needed her, she'd be at his side ready to help. "This is something I don't understand."

"Whatever works," he says. "That's all you need to understand about me. That's been my mantra since I was three, as well you know."

"So you're saying this is the only solution you could come up with, for him to cheat? You didn't even try to think of anything else?"

"Don't lay this at my doorstep when you're the one who started it," he says, angry suddenly. "You say I'm not the villain but you keep coming back to this, trying to dump the blame on me!"

"I'm trying to figure this out," she says. The confusion and pain in her voice is more than he can take.

"I already have the ddx solved. If you don't, that's your problem," he says, and leaves her there, to return to his home.

It's quiet here at least. Roz is probably out shopping or running an errand of some kind; only the cat greets him with a questioning chirp, rubbing against his legs in hope of a treat or an extra breakfast. Greg bends down to twiddle the little animal's ears, taking a mild and spurious comfort from the familiar action. When he straightens he goes into the living room.

The piano keys feel good under his fingers, smooth and cool. He waits for the music to move from his mind into his body. But for the first time in many years, it doesn't happen. The healing noise in his brain won't go free today.

After some time he hears the kitchen door, and the jangle of Roz's keys as she hangs them up. "Hey, I'm home," she calls, and he closes his eyes for a moment at the sound of her, the best music in the world. When she comes into the living room he watches her and can't help but feel a sense of relief, though he knows he can't depend on her to make everything right—that's not in her job description. Still, when she gives him a kiss he savors it, glad of the closeness it reveals.

"What happened?" she asks, and the concern in her cool, dark voice eases him in the most curious way.

"Sit," he says, and makes room for her on the bench. She obliges and gives him an inquiring look. "We're . . . working through things."

After a moment she nods. "Okay. I'm listening."

It takes him a while to spill it all out. Once he's done she sits there quietly, thinking.

"Come on," she says after a minute or so, and gets to her feet.

"What—"

"I think Prof is wrong this time, but you and Sarah have both pushed him hard after he came a long way and he's too tired to see it," Roz says simply. "You both need to finish this game, but you also need someone to kick you back into play when you hit the foul line. I'm volunteering."

He won't admit he's pleased by her successful use of a sports metaphor, because he knows she did it to tease him. "Why can't we tell Goldman to come over here?"

"Because _you_ might be packed full of cinnamon rolls, but _I_ haven't had one yet." Roz offers him a slight smile, her green eyes gleaming with humor. "Let's go, buster."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	10. Chapter 7, part 1

_**(This is part one. Part two will be posted on Thursday. **_

_**I want to offer a big thank you to MissBates, whose comment in a previous review provided me with clarification re: part of the thought process for House's actions. Much obliged :) -B)**_

It was a beautiful morning. Sarah could appreciate that much while she pinned sheets to the line and did her best to stop replaying the morning's events. She tried hard to keep her awareness in her body—the feel of warm sunlight on her arms, the smell of freshly-cut grass, the rustle of the breeze in the new leaves. But she couldn't help feeling a sense of abandonment. Gene and now Prof were gone, Jason hadn't showed his face for two days now, and Greg . . . She sighed as she stuck a pin in place and bent down to get another sheet. At least the beds would smell nice. It was a small, even miniscule comfort, but she'd take it.

"So that's why you picked a fight. You just wanted to get rid of us all so you could do housework."

Sarah straightened and faced Greg. Roz stood next to him. She had his hand in hers; she looked relaxed, as if she and her husband were out for a pleasant stroll. "Good morning," she said quietly. "Do you have time to talk for a while?"

"She's only here for the cinnamon rolls," Greg said. Sarah studied both him and Roz, taking her time.

"Go on in," she said at last. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"How about I help you get the rest of the laundry on the line?" Roz said. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Gee Greg, why don't you make yourself scarce while we talk about the mess you created?" he said in a cracking falsetto.

Sarah gave Greg a steady look. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh fine, delusional too. You've got your work cut out for you," he said to Roz, and stumped off to the kitchen. Roz shook her head.

"I don't know who should win the prize for Most Pig-headed, him or you," she said wryly. "Anyway, I'm here to help if you're up for it. I know you've already been through the wringer once this morning." She moved to the basket and selected a sheet, shook it out, and took it to the line to pin it in place. "Hey, I used a washing metaphor. Go me."

Sarah felt a smile tug at her lips. "You're as bad as he is."

"In my own way, yeah. It's the secret of our success." Roz finished the sheet and took the last one from the basket. "But you already knew that. We wouldn't be such good friends if you didn't."

"Who's supposed to be the shrink here?" Sarah picked up the basket. Roz flashed her a grin. The dappled sunlight moved over her strong features, softened them to reveal the quiet beauty so often hidden by her practical nature.

"I had to learn to analyze. It was self-defense," she said as she pinned the last corner of the sheet, and Sarah couldn't help but laugh. She dumped the basket, went to Roz and gave her a hug, a gesture her friend returned immediately.

"I'm so scared," Sarah said finally. She hadn't meant to say it, but the words came out before she could stop them. Roz gave her a gentle squeeze.

"How could you not be? This is a mess."

Sarah sighed. "Don't give it to me gently. Tell me what you really think."

"There's no point in dressing it up," Roz said. She put an arm around Sarah's shoulders. "Let's go talk about it."

When they entered the kitchen, it was to find Greg making another pot of coffee. "Slacking," he said without turning around. "Not a damn thing to eat or drink in this barren desert devoid of nutrients."

"Because a giant locust ate most of it an hour ago," Sarah said. "I have other things to do than run a twenty-four hour diner for someone with a perfectly good kitchen at home."

Greg slapped the lid down on the coffeemaker and turned to face her. "So that's my fault too." He darted a glance at Roz. She looked back at him calmly. "Nothing to say?" he said harshly. "Not gonna take your best girlfriend's side?"

"Nope," she said. "You two need to get this sorted out, so have at it."

"So you're the ump," Sarah said slowly.

"More like a referee. As I said to genius here, I just kick you back into play." Roz went to the dishrack and selected a small plate and a butter knife, then went to the pan and took the last roll just as her husband reached in to get it.

"Mine!" Greg glared at her.

"How many have you had already? And you ate breakfast with me earlier too. You'll put love handles on your love handles," Roz said. Sarah felt another smile trying to form and understood Roz's method; joking around was a way of both letting them know she was okay with the proceedings, and distancing herself from the seriousness of the situation.

"Fine, steal from me. Where do we want to hold this hootenanny?" Greg wanted to know. He'd moved to the fridge and was busy taking out ingredients for a sandwich.

Roz put some butter on the roll, cut it in half, and went to the coffeemaker. "That's up to you and Sarah."

"Oh, not good. I vote for someplace other than the kitchen. Too many opportunities for mayhem."

Sarah raised a brow. "Should I be worried?"

Greg slapped some roast beef atop a slice of bread. "I was thinking of my own hide."

"I have no reason to go after you." That earned her a direct, cynical look. "Oh, come on. I thought—" She paused as emotion swamped her unexpectedly. "I thought we were friends."

"You are," Roz said before Greg could answer. "If you weren't, you both wouldn't be hurting so much."

No one had anything to say to that for a few moments. "I'm just peachy," Greg muttered, and dumped three slices of cheese atop the roast beef.

"I live with you, so I know that's a lie," Roz said. She took a seat at the breakfast counter and sipped her coffee. "Gene would probably say the same thing about Sare."

Sarah thought of the pain and sadness in Gene's eyes. "Yeah, he would."

"If you think kissing up to the ref will give you the game, think again," Greg said. "She lets you win, she sleeps on her side of the bed with no benefits for the next year, presuming I make it that long with all this _agita_."

"I don't decide who wins this," Roz said in an equable tone. "That's up to the two of you. Like I said, I just keep the ball in play and push you both off the foul line if needed." She took another sip of coffee and broke a chunk off her roll. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"Before we start, I need Greg's permission to talk about things that might only have come up in our sessions. I'll ask first before I say anything, but that has to be clear first," Sarah said. Greg snorted.

"It probably won't be anything wifey hasn't heard anyway, but at least I have proof in front of a witness that you're hopelessly anal."

Roz picked up her mug. "Fine by me. You both know I won't say anything about this, all proceedings are confidential."

Sarah dunked her teabag one last time, removed it and gave her tea a stir. "Okay," she said, and gathered her courage. "Why did you tell Jason about writing papers?"

There was a brief silence. "I presume you're talking to me," Greg said finally. He took a seat at the counter, keeping Roz between Sarah and himself. His limp, usually so slight as to be non-existent, was more pronounced. Sarah didn't think he was doing it for effect, but it was a good gauge of his emotional distress, along with using his wife as a protector. _You're scared too_, she thought.

"Right first time," she said aloud—one of Prof's Brit bits, as Gene called them. "I want a straight answer."

"I gave you one the first time you asked," he snapped. "The kid needed money for basics."

"There are other ways," Sarah said evenly. "You know it. If he had time to write papers then he could have done any of the work-study programs—"

"Grading papers for some washed-up shmuck who pretends to be a department head, while he lets his grad students teach his classes as he jacks off in his office and drinks a fifth for lunch? Don't think so." Greg bit into his sandwich.

"That's what _you_ wouldn't do. Jason washed dishes and cleaned up at Lou's through high school to earn extra money," Sarah said. She could feel anger rising up in her. "He's not afraid of hard work—"

"You assumed he was okay with it because he just did it without complaining. You never asked him why." Greg glanced at Roz. She ate another chunk of roll and gave him no reaction. He frowned at her and continued. "It might surprise you to discover the main reason he worked his ass off all that time."

"We talked to him about it more than once," Sarah said, feeling defensive now. "He said he wanted to help."

"Of course he did." Greg took an enormous bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed. "He had no way of knowing you and Goldman wouldn't eventually get tired of his freeloading and kick him out if he didn't contribute. You could say you loved and wanted him all you liked, but the fact remains that he came to you from a house full of humans worth approximately nothing, who considered him nothing too." He picked up his mug. "Sound familiar?"

She saw it then, the projection she'd put on her son, the worries and fears she'd known and assumed he did too; the enormity of her blind spot took her breath away. She was better than this, she knew how not to do this . . . and she'd done it all the same. That it had been done in love only made things worse.

"And the light bulb clicks on," Greg said under his breath. "Took you long enough."

"Okay," Sarah said. She struggled to set this new knowledge aside for in-depth study later. "Okay, you're right, dammit. But that . . . that doesn't answer my question to you."

"Already answered it."

"You point out my mistake but won't acknowledge your own? I don't think so."

"Wasn't a mistake." Greg sipped his coffee. His vivid blue gaze caught hers, slid away.

"What was it then?" she asked quietly. "Flipping the bird to me and Gene because you couldn't do it to your parents back in the day? Or is that another reason why you cheated and got dumped out of school twice?"

"You know, you're usually not this slow on the uptake." Greg moved his mug to make the contents swirl. "Think about it."

Sarah went over his words, to pause at the mention of 'department head'. "Wait—you mean the guy who was supposed to counsel Jason and help him out didn't do either one?" The anger smoldering deep within began to grow. "And you kept that from me too?"

"I didn't say anything because it's the kid's problem to deal with, not yours, not mine." Greg stared into the coffee moving in a slow spiral in his mug. "He's gonna deal with jerks and assholes on a daily basis once he gets a practice going. If he doesn't learn to stand up for himself now he might as well stop and go back to washing dishes at Lou's."

"All of which still doesn't tell me why you told him to write papers," Sarah said, and let her anger show. "You just tossed it at him—" She stopped, floored by the third revelation in as many minutes. "It was a test. You wanted to see if he'd do it." Greg didn't look up. "That's it, isn't it?"

"You're supposed to guard the foul line," Greg said to Roz, who looked back at him with an impassive expression.

"I am," she said simply. Greg gave a loud sigh.

"So the damn game's rigged. I knew it."

"No it isn't," Roz said. She smiled just a little. "But here's some coaching advice: if you're as smart as I know you are, you'll answer her."

"Oh, great." He returned his gaze to his coffee. "What are you gonna do if I say 'yes'?"

"Just tell me you had a reason to test him this way, to risk his fellowship, his career. And it better be a damn good reason." This time she let her anger show. Greg lifted his head.

"I don't have to justify my teaching methods to you," he said, and he was angry now too. "I don't care if it makes you feel like a lousy parent—"

"Foul," Roz said. "Cast your Charms to disarm only. No personal attacks."

"Not a personal attack, just the truth," Greg said. "You should be disqualified for quoting from those stupid books. Jack Cannon rules, that's all I'm sayin'."

"Greg." It took all Sarah's self-control not to shout at him. "Did it ever occur to you that Jason has more at stake by doing this than you ever did?"

His eyes widened a fraction before he looked away, but she saw the flinch all the same. Just that fast her anger faded; she could feel it falling away, and even if a small part of her wanted to hang onto it, the larger part felt profound relief.

"Careful," Roz was saying. Sarah nodded.

"I'm trying to be. It wasn't meant as a smackdown. I'm not saying Jason is worth more to me or Gene," she said, trying to keep her tone away from gentleness. He'd construe it as pity and she'd lose him. "You will always be my oldest boy, you know that. No one could ever take your place. But when you cheated you knew it wouldn't matter all that much because John had already written you off, that miserable son of a bitch. Jason . . ." She hesitated, but she knew she had to say it. "Jason will never be written off by either me or Gene, no matter what happens. I'm angry about what happened and how you all handled it, whether you like it or not. But it's mainly because this has been Jason's goal for a long time now. He's wanted this with everything in him, he's said that a number of times and I don't doubt him. I want this for him, and so does Gene."

"So you're saying if the ankle-biter decided to chuck it all and go back to washing dishes, you'd be okay with that?" Greg said harshly. "I call bullshit."

"If it was what he really wanted, yeah. I'd be okay with it." Sarah set aside her cooling tea. "You and I were lucky enough to find work we felt passionate about—it's true," she said over Greg's groan. "You've said plenty of times that diagnosis is your one great gift, and you've used it well. I want that for Jason too. If he decides he'd rather—"

"What's going on?"

Jason stood in the mudroom doorway, watching them with narrowed eyes.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. **_


	11. Chapter 7, part 2

_**(Thanks for the follows and reviews, both signed-in and guest-they're much appreciated. **_

_**We'll get House's point of view on this situation in the next chapter. -B)**_

Sarah paused. A jolt of shock went through her, followed closely by concern, joy, and exasperation all nicely mixed in a tangled mess.

"About time you showed up," House said. He shot a look at Roz, who looked back at him calmly. "A little Italian bird told you to come home, no doubt."

"No," Jason said. He took a step into the kitchen, but no farther. Sarah realized he was afraid.

"Come in and sit down," she said in a firm tone. Gentleness would lose him too; he was like Greg that way, mistrustful of anyone showing compassion without a good reason, in their minds at least. Jason stayed where he was.

"If it's all right with Greg and Sarah, I'd like you to join the discussion," Roz said. "And if you don't mind, I have a couple of questions for you. Are you up for this?"

Jason considered what she'd said, then nodded. He came into the room but didn't sit down. Instead he leaned against the counter and folded his arms, his gaze directed toward the floor.

"Okay, thanks," Roz said. She glanced at Sarah, then at Greg. Her husband rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"Of course it's all right with me," Sarah said. She'd hoped this would happen but knew it had to be Jason's choice to show up. Coercion would make him shut down, and much as a part of her wanted to force the issue, she knew it was the worst method to consider. She pushed the urge aside and waited to see what Roz would do. She felt helpless, but knew well enough that was the impulse to control events fighting to be heard, and not worth her consideration.

"Okay," Roz said again. She faced Jason. "Why did you write the papers?"

Jason lifted his head a bit. He didn't answer right away. "For the money."

"There's more to it than that," Roz said quietly. "What else?" And she said nothing more, just waited. Sarah didn't dare to look at Jason in case she intimidated him into silence.

"Why do you say that?" Jason said finally.

"I know you," Roz said with a slight smile. "There's always a good reason behind everything you do, though that reason might seem good only to you. You wrote papers for more than just the money."

After a moment Jason moved to one of the stools and perched on it. He looked as if he'd take off at the slightest excuse, but at least he'd unbent enough to come into the circle of participants.

"There are a lot of people in school who don't know how to write a paper," he said. "I wouldn't have known how to write one either, if Mandy hadn't shown me how. So I . . . I took her method and used it to teach people how to do it."

Sarah blinked. Even Greg looked surprised.

"They had to get the raw data and decide on the thesis. I took what they gave me and made a sample copy."

"That doesn't mean they didn't just pass your sample off as theirs," Greg said.

"They had to promise not to," Jason said. Greg groaned.

"_Jesus_. All my work's been for nothing. You _cannot_ be this naïve."

"How did you prevent them from doing that?" Roz's smile widened a little at Jason's startled glance. "My husband might think you're too trusting, but I know you had this thought out."

"Well, yeah," Jason said simply. "You're supposed to have a viable plan with options in case something goes wrong." He sent Greg a direct look. "That's what you've always taught me, anyway."

"So enlighten us," Greg said, but now he looked interested.

"I hacked the department head's homework unit drive," Jason said simply. "I had copies of the samples so I could compare them to the papers people submitted. Only a couple of them plagiarized my copy word for word. So I deleted their papers and substituted the same number of pages, just with content created by a random-generator app."

Silence fell. Sarah didn't know what to say; she wanted to laugh, cry, let her head explode. The whole thing was pure Jason, from start to finish.

"I take it all back. Niiiiice," Greg said, and his genuine admiration was clear. "Does the titular head know about this?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't tell that moron jack shit," Jason said with some scorn. Greg snorted a laugh, sent a look Sarah's way. _You should be proud_, that look said. Sarah gave him a quelling glare and got a smirk in response.

"So no one knows about this but you and the people whose papers you yanked," she said.

"Yes." Jason hesitated, then looked at her. "Mom, it was cheating, I know that. I'm not making excuses for what I did. I just tried to help people who really needed it. They were good students, I made sure."

"Jason, I don't think this is cheating," Roz said. "You didn't actually write those papers, you just acted as an unofficial tutor."

"Hacked into the head's office unit," Greg reminded her. _Playing devil's advocate_, Sarah thought absently, and realized she was in shock for the second time in a week.

"That's a separate issue," Roz said. "He didn't hack into the drive to cheat, he did it to check on his customers. You didn't do anything else while you were in there, like change your grades?" she asked Jason. He shook his head and looked a bit offended that she would ask.

"Why didn't you tell us this in the first place?" Sarah fought to keep her voice even. "Why did you let us think you were actually selling papers to people?"

Jason lowered his gaze to the floor once more. "I wanted to say something, but everyone was freaking out. I didn't think you'd listen. So I just said I cheated and that I sold papers to get the worst part of it out of the way so we could talk."

The simple words sank in. Sarah felt them cut deep on their way to her heart; she knew she'd never forget them. "You had to know how that would sound."

"I got paid for it." Jason clasped his hands between his knees, shoulders hunched. "I should have done it for free."

"No, I think you were right to ask for an equal exchange," Roz said. "People tend to value something more if it has a cost." She tilted her head a bit. "What did you do with the money?"

"The first couple of years, I sent it to Dad to help with the loans." Jason darted a look at Sarah, licked his lips. "During my residency I used it for my share of the rent and groceries."

"Jason, that's—that's not cheating," Sarah said, her heart aching. "Wasn't there any way you could okay this with someone—a dean, one of the administrators?"

"I tried. I went to another department head. She said I didn't have the qualifications to be a tutor, that I should refer the students who needed help to their counselors." Jason shrugged. "The assigned tutors are always overloaded, they couldn't take on anyone else. The counselors are usually too busy with their own classes and publishing to do much beyond give you the party lines on what might work. It just seemed wrong not to help when there were people who really needed it, and I needed the money."

Sarah remembered a younger Jason sitting in almost the same spot, defending his decision to drive to work after being grounded for that very action in the first place. This was her boy, determined to do things the way he thought they should be done despite consequences.

"I have a question," Jason was saying. Roz nodded.

"Go ahead. This process works both ways."

"Good to know," Greg muttered.

"Okay." Jason's grip on his knees tightened; his knuckles were white. "Mom . . . why did you tell me no when I asked if I could help out?" he said. His voice was harsh with anxiety, a little too loud. "Why wouldn't you talk with me about it?"

Sarah took her time replying, trying to find the right words. She was a little surprised to find her hands shook. "When I went to college, I had no help at all. No grants or scholarships, just a student loan that got bigger every year, with interest added. It took me forever to get it paid off after I got my doctorate, and there were hard times when the loan payments and the rent came first and there was nothing left over. I had to work two jobs on and off for years, and it was miserable because I had no time to spend with Dad, or do anything except try to fit some sleep and a meal between work schedules." She sighed. "I want better for you because you're my son and I love you. It hurts me to think you'd have to struggle that hard."

"You're still mad at Dad," Jason said to the floor.

"That's between me and him," Sarah said. "We'll work it out. It isn't the first time we've had an argument and it won't be the last." She stood slowly, favoring her sore hip. "I'm presuming you haven't told the committee about what really went on."

Jason shook his head. "They're still gathering evidence."

"Well you're the primary source. They need to hear about what happened from you, not someone else." Sarah moved to stand by Jason. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Understand I'm not tellin' you what to do. But it's my opinion you'd be better off to go back to Boston and give the right people the truth, all of it. You can come back here while you wait to find out what they decide."

Greg groaned. "Such a Girl Scout. Kid, you tell them about that hack, your ass is grass and they're the fucking bush hog that'll end up making you a therapy sax player for some hospice in East Bumfuck."

"That could happen, yeah," Sarah said. "But if he hides the truth, it'll come out sooner or later. It always does. You should know that better than anyone." She gave Jason's shoulder a little caress. "You might want to take someone with you if you decide to go."

Jason's hand came up to cover hers. "Okay."

"This isn't done," Sarah said softly. "I need to talk with your dad, and the three of us will sit down together eventually. I might ask for Roz's help," she offered a smile to her friend. "She should hang out a shingle."

"Nah, too much like work," Roz said, and returned Sarah's smile.

"I'm outta here," Greg said, and hopped off the stool. He avoided Sarah's look and headed through the mudroom door. Roz got up too.

"He'll talk with you in his own time and way," she said. "But you already knew that." She reached in and gave Sarah a one-armed hug, kissed her cheek. "Let me know if I can help again."

The kitchen was quiet with the Houses gone. Sarah took her mug of tea to the sink. "Do you need anything at the barn?" she asked without looking around. "I can bring you some clean sheets and restock the fridge, if you want."

"You don't have to." Jason came up next to her. "If—if you don't mind, I'd like to stay out there a little longer." Sarah nodded, not trusting her voice. "Okay, thanks." And he was gone.

She stood at the sink a long time, washing a mug long since clean, going over the events of the last two hours, struggling to come to terms with the information she'd learned, and her own part in setting the chain of events in motion. Finally she rinsed the mug, set it in the rack, wiped her hands dry, and picked up her link to make two calls. Both of them had identical messages.

"When you come home, I'd like to talk."

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**_


	12. Chapter 8

It's a quiet evening at the Houses place. Well, it's not like they whoop it up with sex, drugs and loud music every night, at least not anymore. Okay, not ever, to Greg's eternal disappointment—still, they've had some good times all the same.

But tonight his wife is tired. She's drooping a bit, actually. He'd made an executive decision against her cooking dinner and sent out for pizza and sides while she dozed on the couch, snuggled into the corner with Hellboy and a pillow. Greg won't admit to himself that it makes him anxious to see this sign of age in his woman. She's in the autumn of her life while he's firmly in the winter of his, and he doesn't want to think about what that eventually means for them both. But for now they're still above ground, and she needs looking after.

When dinner arrives he's the one to get everything ready for once without being nagged into it. He sets it up buffet style on the kitchen table, fills his plate and loads another, and takes them out to the living room. Roz wakes when he sits next to her. He hands her the plate with a careful flourish.

"Compliments of the house," he says, pun intended. She accepts it and looks over the contents. He's ordered half of the pizza with all the disgusting vegetables she likes, extra olive oil and sauce. There's _antipasto_ as a side dish too. How a human being can voluntarily eat so many healthy foods in one sitting is beyond him, but he does appreciate the result. She is still slender, with smooth soft golden skin and the thick, sable-black hair he loves; a few wrinkles and grey hairs here and there, granted, but they only enhance her beauty in his eyes. He knows that's a sign he's besotted, but what the hell, he's allowed that knowledge, even if he never says it out loud.

She picks up the slice and takes a big bite, closing her eyes in apparent bliss. "Mmm . . ." Her eyelashes flutter just a little, a tiny physical quirk of which he never tires. "Thank you so much for this," she says around the mouthful of food.

"I felt like eating someone else's cooking," he says, and she smiles at him, her green eyes full of humor.

"Me too." She takes another bite of pizza.

When they're replete and drowsy, cuddled together on the couch watching the ball game with the cat draped over the back of the couch on the blanket, Roz says "You were pretty quiet today."

Immediately his good mood evaporates. He doesn't want to analyze the events of the big smackdown, not now, not ever. "Nothing to say."

"Oh, you had plenty to say. You just didn't want to lose your foster mom and kitchen privileges." She sweetens this verdict with a kiss to his jawline. "You won't, you know. She loves you too much for some strange reason."

"So do you," he dares to point out.

"Yup, so do I," she says without hesitation, and then falls silent. She's holding his hand though, so he takes that as a good sign.

"Jason will have to answer for hacking that computer," she says after a while. "That's gonna cost him the fellowship."

"You play, you pay." He rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, massaging the base of her shortened little finger. There are arthritic changes started there, he can feel them in the enlargement of the joint, so he keeps his touch gentle. "The kid knew the risks."

"Because you told him." There's no accusation or heat in her words, but she wants the truth. Greg sighs.

"You're not gonna lecture me on the responsibilities of a mentor and all that crap, are you?"

She doesn't answer right away. "I can see your point of view. I can see Sarah's too, and Jason's. You all keep trying to turn this into right versus wrong. It doesn't work that way."

Now he's intrigued. "Explain."

Roz rests her head against his shoulder, a familiar gesture. "Everyone's looking at this situation from their own moral and ethical viewpoint, instead of just reviewing Jason's actions and the probable consequences first. Talking to Jason was essential because he's the one at the center of everything, and it's important to know what he was thinking when he decided on the course of action that's causing all the trouble now. We needed the facts, not just what everyone presumed he'd done." She stretches a bit and yawns. "If you think of it as a sort of equation, it makes the process much clearer."

He has to chuckle at that—his wife, ever the mathematician. "So you've got us all figured out."

"Not likely." She snuggles in just a little closer. Silence falls once more, with only the voices of the game's color commentators murmuring in the soft semi-darkness.

"So that's it?" he says finally. "I know you're dying to tell me what to do."

"Am not," she says. She sounds a little drowsy now. "You already know what you're gonna do."

"What's that?" he says, amused and a little apprehensive at the same time.

"Go to Boston with Jason," she says simply. "It's getting late, _amante_. Let's go to bed, we can catch the rest of this game tomorrow. Our team's gonna lose anyway, they stink on ice this year."

He considers her simple pronouncement while they get ready for bed. Once they're settled in and the lights are out, the cat curled up at their feet (on Greg's bathrobe, of course), he says "There's no point in my going to Boston. In fact, my being there would probably make things worse."

Roz faces him. He knows she's tired, that she's more than ready to just drop into sleep, but she answers without hesitation. "Because you think your reputation and your own expulsions from school will count against anything you say."

"Yup."

She doesn't contradict him. Instead she puts a hand on his chest. "You are more than your worst experiences and impulses," she says. "More people know that than you realize."

Greg lies in the dark for a long time after she falls asleep, thinking over what she's said, remembering things he's done his best to hold at bay for well over fifty years now. Gradually he drifts off, memories fading into the dark, where they belong, and where he can so seldom keep them.

_Music filled the quiet room, low, slow and blue, but with a sly wink of humor in it all the same. Greg sat at the battered old upright, tickling the yellowed ivories, and wished he had the band around him to chip in on a classic groove._

"_Great tune," Hawkeye said. He ambled over and sat his lean frame into the chair next to the piano, stretched a little, folded his hands over his belly and tipped his head back. Greg stopped playing._

"_You can't be here. You're dead."_

_Hawkeye opened one eye. "Astute observation. You wanted to talk to me, here I am."_

"_I'm not talking to some piece of my own brain. Been there, done that in abundance. Nothing good ever comes of it." He began to play again__._

"_You'__re already doing it__," Hawkeye pointed out. "Might as well keep going." He closed his eye. "What's o__n your mind, junior?"_

"_Harhar. You're a decaying corpse full of laughs." Greg let the riff roll out under his fingers before he spoke again. "I'm in trouble."_

"_You're not. The kid is." Hawkeye crossed his ankles. "This isn't about you."_

"_I'm his mentor." G__reg rolled out the melody long and slow. _

"_Yeah, which means you bear some of the responsibility for Jason's choice to write papers. You did give him the information, after all.__ But it was his decision to write them, not yours.__" _

_Greg waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. "When's the other shoe gonna drop?"_

"_It isn't your shoe to worry about,__"__ Hawkeye said. "Not unless you have three feet. I'd like to think my genetics are a little better than that."_

"_So the kid pays the full price for that pair of footwear." Greg let his hands rest on the keys. _

"_Greg, he's not y__ou. You cheated for several reasons, but mainly to flip the bird to anyone in authority who might be watching. Which, by the way, makes you a chip right off my old block." Hawkeye shifted a bit. __"__Jason was trying to help people. But that doesn't mean he didn't understand the possible consequences of his actions. He just figured it would be worth it."_

_Greg began playing again. "So you're saying concern is pointless."_

"_No, I'm saying give the kid a little credit. He can deal with what happens, and he'll adjust to whatever changes might be coming his way. So when you go with him—"_

"_Haven't said I would yet."_

"—_when you go with him, go because you're gonna stand with him, not just to resolve your own guilt." Hawkeye tipped his head back. "Got any beer? I'd die for a cold one."_

"_Hyuk yuk yuk. Beer's in the fridge, help yourself." Greg continued the song as Hawkeye got up and ambled into the house, to return with two sweating bottles. Without comment he passed one to Greg and resumed his seat._

"_So what d'you think the committee will do?__" Hawkeye took a swig of beer. He swallowed and sighed. "Nectar of the gods."_

"_He's lost his shot at the fellowship, probably for a couple of years." Greg finished with a flourish and took up his bottle. "There's no question about that. If he gets off light it'll be a letter of reprimand as well, and they'll pretend the hack never took place. Unfortunately the department head doesn't like him, so the hack is more than likely on the table and that could be real trouble. It's a potential criminal charge, not just a policy breach."_

_They sat in silence for a minute or two, taking long swallows of cold beer. "How's the kid holding up?" Hawkeye said._

"_Worried. Scared he's gonna be kicked out of the family. Afraid his dream is dead now. Not sure if he's worth anyone's help." Greg finished his beer, set the bottle on the piano. _

"_Tough spot to be in." Hawkeye glanced at him, his blue eyes keen. "As you well know."_

_Greg shook his head. "Wasn't like this. My old man knew I was a fuckup from the start."_

"_Then he was wrong." The anger in Hawkeye's words caught Greg by surprise._

"_Come on, I've been screwing things up since before I can remember—"_

"_Look. I wasn't around when you were growing up, and I'll always regret that even if I couldn't have been a good father to you anyway. But I know you well enough to say with absolute certainty that you are not a fuckup." Hawkeye faced him. "Take that with you when you go with the kid to Boston."_

"_I'm not going to Boston. Dammit, __I'm not!"_

"Greg?"

It's not his bio-dad speaking now, it's Roz, her lips brushing his ear. He feels the remnants of the dream pulling away, and for a moment he has a strange desire to step back in and take his wife with him to see Hawkeye. She still mourns the old man's death, though it's been years now.

"Uh," he grunts, and closes his eyes.

"You were dreaming. Are you okay?" The quiet concern in her voice eases his anxiety.

"'mfine," he mutters. "Just a stupid dream."

_Hey, who are you calling stupid?_ He hears Hawkeye's voice echo down the corridors of his sleepy brain, followed by a faint, fading chuckle.

"You're worried about going to Boston."

He sighs. "Don't wanna talk about it."

After a moment her small hand touches his cheek. She says nothing more, just settles in behind him—spooning him, something he's always secretly enjoyed, though usually he's the one holding her. He likes the feel of her warm body cradling his, her soft breath on his skin. In these quiet moments, he lets himself take comfort from the slender, wiry arms enfolding him with such gentleness. It's a respite from the whispers in his head, the if:then thoughts that run without ceasing—dimmed over the last years, but there all the same; a noise he'll take with him to Boston.

'_Lonely Avenue', James Booker_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**  
_


	13. Chapter 9

_May 11th_

"How long will you stay in Boston?" Mandy took a swallow of her hard cider. Jason set down his bottle of beer and leaned back in the rump-shot patio chair he'd set up next to the woodstove. The barn was quiet at this hour, with only the last slanting beams of sunset moving in the stillness.

"Not sure yet," he said. "We'll see the committee on Monday. Unless they have some reason for me to stay, we'll come back right after the meeting. There's no point in hanging around otherwise."

Neither of them said anything for a while, just listened to Bessie Smith sing about how she wasn't gonna play no second fiddle. "That might be a mistake," Mandy said finally.

"Why?" Jason glanced at her, then away. "They'll probably fall all over themselves to get rid of me."

"Self-pity isn't going to help." Mandy softened the tartness in her words with a slight smile. "This isn't just about what happened. It's politics and workplace dynamics."

"I know that," Jason said, trying not to feel defensive. "But they've already made up their minds—"

"No, _you_ have." Mandy lowered her bottle, cradled it in her hands. "You've decided you're done and that's the end of it. I know you, Jason. You're like your mother, you get an idea in your head and that's where it stays. It's like trying to get rid of an old tree stump in the front yard."

"I'm not being stubborn," Jason said, exasperated. "I know how things are run, you don't."

Mandy studied him for a moment. "So how are things run?"

Jason snorted. "By decree." He drank the last of his beer and took the bottle to the recycle bin, then went to the fridge to get more. "They pontificate, you do what they tell you."

"Well, you didn't," she pointed out. "You wouldn't be facing them now if you'd played by the rules. So what has you worried?"

Jason extracted a fresh beer and turned to face her. "Are you _serious_?"

"Yeah, I am," she said, and sat up a little. "Before you did anything else, you calculated the consequences if you got caught. I know you, you wouldn't have set things up without going over as many possible outcomes as you could configure. So what do you think will happen?"

Jason moved to his chair, sat down. He popped the top on the edge of the stove and took a long swallow of cold beer, let it settle in his belly before he answered her.

"I won't get the fellowship, whatever else happens. They'll make sure to take that away. A letter of reprimand, probably. If they decide to go after me legally for hacking Karlson's—uh, the department head's computer, then . . . I don't know. I'd get handed over to the cops at some point for criminal charges."

"Do you think that's likely?" Mandy asked softly. Jason shrugged.

"Karlson can't stand me, so it's pretty likely he'll push for charges. It depends on what the rest of the committee thinks. They aren't vindictive as a rule, but if they think he's got a valid case, I'll end up in court."

Mandy looked away. "House is going with you. You know he'll be your advocate."

"That's what I'm afraid of." At her quizzical expression Jason sighed. "It's more likely he'll make things worse."

Mandy didn't reply right away. "You know, that's a really stupid thing to say."

"What do you mean?"

"He cares about you. No, I don't mean in a gushy way," she went on when Jason groaned. "He's not built like that and never will be. But he does care. He wouldn't have taken you on as a student if he hadn't seen something in you and thought you were worth the effort. You know House doesn't mess around."

"Bullshit. He messes around all the time," Jason pointed out.

"That's what he wants people to think. If they're idiots or don't use their brains for anything except watching soap vids, it works. You know better and have for years, so stop acting like you don't understand him."

"Maybe he doesn't understand me," Jason snapped. "Maybe none of you do." Mandy raised a brow but said nothing, just drank her cider. Jason glared at her. "I'm right and you don't want to admit it."

"You're wasting a lot of energy taking your anxiety out on whoever's closest," Mandy said. "Not one of your more endearing traits."

She was right, he knew it and he hated knowing it too. He said nothing, just tipped his head back to look up at the rafters.

"Do you want me to go with you tomorrow?" He brought his gaze down to hers. She smiled a little at his obvious surprise. "House doesn't scare me, and neither do you. Maybe you could use a friend."

"Is that all we are? Just friends?" He knew it was a mistake the moment the last word left his lips.

"Yeah, if I remember correctly," Mandy said. She shifted her gaze from his, but he'd seen the flash of emotion in her eyes, the pain, and how he'd hurt her. "You wanted it that way."

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

"I know you are." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "So do you want me to go with you and House?"

"You'd be sitting around in a waiting room drinking crappy coffee for hours."

"No I wouldn't," she said, and managed a faint smile. "We'll stop on the way to get something for breakfast and some decent coffee, and then I'll be talking with my online publisher about the next book. I might even get a few paragraphs written."

Jason's lips twitched. "You don't have to be so damn practical." He took a long pull of beer.

"You don't need me hanging over you. But you do need someone who's there just to be supportive. House is going as your mentor as well as your friend. He is," she insisted when Jason rolled his eyes. "You should stop pretending that's ridiculous, Jay."

"You didn't work with him for years," Jason said. He stretched out his legs and toed off his sneakers, left first, then right. "He's not a friend."

"If you mean he won't slap you on the back and buy you a beer, no," Mandy said. "But he's standing by you when this could cause trouble for him."

"Trouble? What trouble? He's got a reputation better than God's. People at school found out I worked with him and they acted like I was the chosen one. It caused problems for me more times than I can count."

Mandy put down her cider but didn't speak right away. "That's an incredibly ignorant thing to say," she said eventually. "You know why House came here in the first place all those years ago. He gave your mom permission to tell us if we ever asked. That must have been a difficult decision for him, he's intensely private about his history and for good reason as it turns out. Yet here you sit, acting like he's never had any trouble or problems in his life. And by the way, you are _not_ the chosen one. Not even close." She sounded genuinely upset.

"Hey," Jason said. He sat up straight, a bit indignant at her scolding. "I know I'm not, okay? If anything this whole stupid mess proves that beyond any doubt. As for House—" He paused, unsure of how to say what he was thinking. "Maybe when he first came to Mom, he had problems . . ."

"You don't pay attention. Why do guys never pay attention?" Mandy finished off her cider. Her cheeks were a bit flushed; she didn't drink much and it only took one bottle to get her a little buzzed, something Jason secretly found rather charming. "Haven't you watched him with your mom since you came home? His anxiety levels are way up. You can tell because he's working overtime to piss people off, push them away. He does that when he thinks he needs to defend himself or hang onto something he cares about. Right now I think he's scared he'll lose his family. He's got Roz, but your parents and you are the closest thing he has to a mom and dad and a brother." Mandy stood, swayed a bit, and went to the fridge.

"He doesn't see me as a brother," Jason said in protest. "I'm more like the dumbest student in a remedial reading class."

Mandy got another cider and twisted off the top. "No, that's how you see yourself and he knows it," she said. "House is good at using peoples insecurities against them." She made her way back to her chair and plopped into it, took a long swallow of cider and relaxed against the cushions.

"So how does he see you?" Jason was careful not to look at her.

"He calls me Hermione." She laughed softly. Jason snorted and drank some beer.

"You've got him all figured out," he said. Mandy gave him a wry look.

"Not even close, but I'm a writer so I get some things right. A big part of my job is observation." She kept watching him. "Do you want me to come with you and House tomorrow or not?"

He didn't answer her right away. Instead he set aside his beer and got up, to kneel in front of the woodstove. He opened the door, took kindling and a log from the basket on the hearth, and set up a fire. Once it was well-started he said "Yes. I'd—I'd like you to come with us tomorrow." He closed the door, set the damper to draw slow, and resumed his seat. Mandy said nothing. She reached over, took his hand. Her small, clever fingers curled around his.

"You should go home," Jason said after a while. He didn't really want her to leave, but asking her to stay . . . it was selfish and cruel, and a minefield he didn't want to walk through right now.

"I should," Mandy said. "Maybe I don't want to."

"It's not a good idea, you staying."

She made a sound that could have been a laugh. "It never was."

He made one last effort. "You've been drinking. So have I."

"Two ciders for me, two beers for you, big deal. I'm a little buzzed but I know what I'm asking. Maybe you do too, for once." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze to take the sting out of her words.

After a time they lay together in the big bed, snuggled under the covers because it was chilly now, even with the woodstove's heat. There was another way to warm up however, and they employed it gladly. Jason brought Mandy close, his hands drifting over her generous curves as she sighed and moved with him. He loved being here with her in the flickering light, the soft rustle of the leaves outside a quiet background as she said his name and wrapped her legs around his, smiling up at him, her beautiful face flushed and joyous.

"I don't know . . ." he said later, as they faced each other. Mandy moved a lock of his hair to tuck it behind his ear, a familiar gesture.

"What don't you know?"

Jason sighed. "I don't know why I can't . . . be with you," he said, unable to find the words. He trailed his fingers over her arm, leaned in to brush her lips with his. He tasted salt and drew back in mild concern.

"It's all right," Mandy said, and wiped her cheek. "Just me being stupid."

"It's not stupid at all." Jason rested his cheek against her hair. "I'm sorry."

"Jay, I know you love me, and I love you. But it isn't simple, and it isn't enough. It never really was." She let go a long breath. "You have things you need to do before you decide to belong to anyone. They're part of your dream, you've wanted them for a long time. It's okay."

He knew that was a lie, but the fact that she was still willing to say it humbled him. He brought her a little closer and put his hand on her cheek, enjoying the touch of her soft skin under his palm.

"We'll get breakfast and decent coffee in the morning," he said, and felt Mandy's answering smile.

_'I Ain't Gonna Play No Second Fiddle', Bessie Smith_

_**Many thanks for reading and reviewing. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.** _


	14. Chapter 10

**_(A short chapter, but we'll get more of the road trip on Monday. Many thanks to all who have followed and favorited this story, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. -B)_**

_May 12th_

Jason entered the code on the back door and slipped inside when the lock released. It was barely sunrise, the light faint and grey; no one should be up—but he smelled fresh coffee the moment he entered the mudroom, as well as the familiar fragrance of cinnamon rolls baking. Of course Mom would know they'd be on their way early, and would offer breakfast.

She stood at the counter with her back to him as she made a cup of tea. The sight of her brought an unexpected lump to his throat. Bundled in her shabby, comfortable chenille bathrobe over a sleep shirt and flannel pants, she looked the same as always. It was only when she turned and he saw the impassive expression that he realized she was scared. His own apprehension faded. Whatever lay between them, he wasn't leaving for Boston with both of them afraid of each other. He set down his duffle and went to her. Her face brightened; without a word she opened her arms and took him to her, holding him close. Jason returned her embrace, felt her trembling and knew a deep sense of shame.

"I didn't mean to stay away so long," he said. "Mom . . . I'm sorry."

"Shh . . ." She gave him a gentle squeeze. "You have enough to deal with, going to Boston. When you come back, we'll talk and get everything straightened out. Right now you just need to be home for a little while." She rubbed his back. "I made you some breakfast."

Jason had just taken the first roll out of the pan when Dad came into the kitchen. He looked tired, but better than he had a few days ago. He went to Mom, put his arm around her. Jason was glad to see Mom lift her face for Dad's kiss. They stood together for a few moments; then Dad let her go, took a plate from the rack and came over to the counter where the pan full of rolls waited. He glanced at Jason but said nothing. Up close it was easier to see the lines of worry and sleeplessness, but Dad gave him a slight smile all the same.

"You up for this?" he said softly.

"Guess it doesn't matter if I am or not," Jason said.

"If you're not ready to go back we'll work out something else. You have some choice in what happens," Dad said, and put a hand on Jason's shoulder as Gordon showed up, sleepy and tousled but smiling.

"Now that's what I like to see," he said in a mild tone. "Any hope for a cup of tea?"

Prof took his cuppa with him to his room. For everyone else breakfast was a quiet meal, enjoyed while early morning sunshine crept in and the sky outside slowly brightened. Jason was on his second cup of coffee when he heard the code being punched at the mudroom door. A few moments later House stood in the doorway, glowering at them.

"Good morning," Mom said before House could speak. "Come in and have breakfast. I know Roz didn't feed you, so we can't have you starving to death on the way to Boston."

House raised his brows. "Sarcasm," he said. "Offense, not defense. Nicely played." He came into the kitchen, moved to the coffeemaker. "Booze would make this taste even better."

"You know where the liquor's kept around here," Mom said, and Jason realized this was some kind of ongoing contest between her and House, a sort of one-upmanship they both needed to play out. It wouldn't end here, that was certain. "Help yourself."

For answer House grabbed a mug and stumped over to the cabinet where the hard stuff was stored. He rummaged around, brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. House examined it with a critical eye. "Better than nothing," was his verdict. He opened the bottle, poured a generous amount in the mug, put the bottle—still open—back in the cupboard, and returned to the coffeemaker. Mom stayed where she was.

"I take it Jason's driving," she said. House snorted as he stirred his coffee and took a sip.

"Ah," he made a production out of smacking his lips. "Nectar of the cheap-whiskey gods." He eyed Mom over his cup. "The car's driving. You know Barbarella's got all the up-to-date fancy doo-dads required by the fascisti in these modern times."

"Someone has to sit behind the wheel," Mom pointed out. "It's not gonna be you if you have a slug of hard liquor in you."

House took a defiant gulp of coffee and swallowed loudly. Jason rolled his eyes.

"I'll drive," he said. "It's not like I haven't done this milk run a dozen times before."

"It's my vehicle, I decide who takes her out," House snapped. He glared at Jason. "We wouldn't be doing this at all if you hadn't been sloppy."

"That's enough," Dad said. It was the first time he'd spoken up in nearly a week. "Either Jason or Mandy does the driving, or we hold a 3D meeting in the living room and the hell with the expense." He gave House a direct look. "You took the drink, stop bitchin'." It was clear Dad meant more than just the alcohol, but to Jason's surprise House relaxed a little.

"I think you've been lying to us all this time. You were an MP in some nice cushy rear-echelon job," he said, but a corner of his mouth quirked up for a moment.

"Yeah, you keep on thinkin' that," Dad said, but Jason heard unspoken humor in the stern words. "Sit down and eat." Even as he said it they heard the front door code. A moment later Mandy came to the doorway with her overnight bag in hand. House slapped two rolls on a plate and took a last swallow of coffee.

"The gang's all here," he said. "Time to go." He sauntered to the doorway, plate in hand, and waited until Mandy moved aside before he continued on. Mandy shook her head.

"Are you ready?" she asked Jason. He nodded. His gut tightened on the knowledge that this was really happening, he was on his way to face a situation that had seemed so easy to deal with in theory . . .

"Jason," Mom said softly. He didn't look at her; a new wave of guilt pushed through him at the knowledge of what he'd put her and Dad through. "Whatever happens, this is your home and we are your parents. We love you, you know that." She hesitated. "Tell the truth and don't let your fear get the better of you. _Mo ghile mear_," she said, and the old endearment made his heart ache. "Do your best, and come home to us. We'll be here."

Prof waited for them at the front door. "I shan't keep you," he said. "Undoubtedly your very fine parents have reassured you of love and hearth for your return, and rightly so. I'll just add this: stand by your actions."

"But you think I was wrong," Jason said.

"My dear boy, it doesn't matter what I think, or anyone else for that matter. You are the one who chose the course. It's up to you to have the courage of your convictions. If you don't, no one else will care to understand why you acted as you did." Gordon patted his shoulder. "Give them your viewpoint, but resist the temptation to argue. I'll see you when you return, and we'll talk then."

Barbarella waited at the top of the drive, pulled in by the front porch. House sat in the middle of the back seat with a dirty plate at his side, his head tipped back, hands folded over his middle. Jason took Mandy's overnight bag and his duffle and stowed them in the trunk, then climbed in. The old car was gleamed in the morning sunlight, its burnished patina still pristine over the dark paint. Mandy got in next to him. "Shotgun," she said cheerfully, and took out a pair of sunglasses. She put them on with a flourish. "It's a hunnert an' six miles to Chicago, we got a full tanka gas, half packa cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."

"Hit it!" House said from the back seat. When Jason looked at him in the rear view mirror, the older man wore sunglasses too. House smirked and gave him a little flutter of the fingers in greeting as Mandy chuckled. She reached down and turned on the music link. A moment later Robert Johnson began to sing.

"Jesus H tapdancing Christ," Jason muttered. He eased the car down the driveway and on the road.

'_Crossroad', Robert Johnson_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	15. Chapter 11

It is an interesting experience, watching a journey unfold from the back seat of a car.

Greg remembers other trips, most far longer than this one, some of them conducted in other countries, the memories decades old now but still fresh in his mind. Of course then circumstances had been different. He'd been an unlikeable, insatiably curious child, and not given much more consideration than the luggage stacked on either side of him. In those days even seat belts for the back seat had been non-existent, so he'd curled up against the softest item available and amused himself in any way he could find—watching the scenery go by during the day and making up stories in his head about the houses and farms and cities they passed, basing his conclusions on the things he saw in back yards, side windows, the people on forgotten and neglected streets. When he could get away with it, he listened to his parents talk. They didn't do much of that, but now and then, when they thought he was asleep, they would hold the kind of intermittent, footnoted conversations he'd learned to expect from adults. The sound of his mother's soft hesitant voice and John's firm, short replies gave him something to cling to in the stuffy, moving darkness, though he often struggled to understand what they were really saying to each other.

But now he's sitting pretty, stretched out with the whole back seat to himself, head and knees supported with cushions, his link and a couple of old-fashioned paperbacks at the ready, along with a stash of cookies and candy and water in an insulated bag, provided by his smother mother. There's good music on the system, and traffic isn't too bad. Even better, he's got junior and the successful writer in the front seat and they're providing more entertainment than he'd dared to hope for.

"You need to lighten up," Faust is saying. She sounds sure of what she's saying, as if no one else could have any other opinion. Of course that's gonna get the kid riled.

"I'm just fine," Jason says. He stares straight ahead at the freeway, though Barbarella's doing all the work and making a fine job of it—exactly what Greg expects of an experienced and intelligent ride like his. He has compared his wife to her on occasion, and Roz hasn't objected. Well, not too much anyway.

"You're acting like you're headed to your execution." Faust picks a cashew out of the bag of trail mix she's holding, munches it.

"This is a big deal. Excuse me if I take it seriously."

"There's seriously, and then there's being a drama queen. You don't usually act like this, so I'm thinking you're taking advantage of the situation."

Greg awards the point to Faust; there's a good amount of truth in that observation. The kid hunches his shoulders.

"You're not the one going through this," he says.

"Neither are you," Faust says, "not unless you want to."

Jason shoots a quick glare at her. "Don't start dumping platitudes on me, okay? Just don't."

"It's not a platitude to say the way you choose to face something is bullshit. You'd do it to me." Her reasonable tone annoying as hell, but something tells Greg she knows it and is using it the way a dentist uses a pick to find hidden areas of decay in a mouthful of teeth.

"If you think I'm gonna smile and joke around about this, think again," Jason snaps at her. He turns his head away to look out the left side window.

"I didn't say that," Faust says. "Fine, go ahead and wallow."

"I'm not—" The kid bites off the words. He pushes his shoulders back, leans his head against the rest. "I'm just not." He moves his head to look in the rear view mirror and Greg closes his eyes. It's a feeble attempt at scamming but he thinks it'll work, mainly because his protégé isn't paying attention to even the most basic details at the moment. After a moment Jason speaks, his voice low, urgent. "I'm—I'm worried. If they take me to court . . . I don't know what I'll do."

"Is that what you're mostly concerned about?"

"Yeah." Jason says it without emotion. "Yeah. Not—not jail, I don't mean that part of it. I'd probably get probation or a short suspended sentence. But losing the medical degree . . ."

"Are you sure that would happen?" Faust asks softly, after a little silence.

"Yeah, pretty sure." Jason sighs, a long slow exhale of breath that says more about his fear than words could ever express. Faust makes a little movement that Greg can see even through his lashes; she's holding the kid's hand. They don't speak. About thirty seconds in, Greg decides he's had enough of this disgusting display of emotion and besides, he needs to pee. He coughs loudly and sits up, then sticks his head over the front seat. "Are we there yet?"

Faust chuckles. "Rest area's coming up," she says. Greg sets his chin on the seat.

"It better have clean facilities or we'll have to go to the next one."

"If you don't like it, pee on the poison ivy by the picnic tables," the kid says, but at least there's a fugitive quirk of the lips when he says it—the first faint hint of some kind of humor since this whole debacle began. That's a good sign, though of course it's not anything to rely on.

They all empty out their respective bladders in the appropriate receptacles, wash up and stretch their legs with a brief walk, then gather in the café to pick up coffee and a few items to supplement the food Sarah's sent along with them. It's the most basic exercise in the observation handbook to figure out exactly what the other two will buy, and they don't disappoint; Faust gets a nut bar and some dried fruit, Jason picks up a package of pretzel bites and some chocolate. Greg takes the opportunity to stock up on chips, candy bars, beef jerky and sugarless gum. The look the clerk gives him over the gum is worthy of an Oscar—raised brow and eloquent eyes. "Mind your own beeswax," Greg says, and grabs the bag out of her hand. He notices he's shaking again—the liquor from breakfast wore off over an hour ago, he'll have to take his meds. He pops the dose dry and chases it with some coffee, an action of which his doctor would disapprove if she could see it.

Soon enough they're on their way once more. Since they're closer to civilization now and traffic is more congested, Greg has consented to Faust taking over the driving. He knows she's worth his temporary trust—her style is conservative and more cautious than bold, something he'd normally decry, but with his baby on the line he's just as happy to stay on the slower, more deliberate side of things. He won't admit he's a little more comfortable having a human behind the wheel anyway.

He looks over the music selections, chooses Taj Mahal's 'Stagger Lee' to start things off, and enjoys the familiar opening notes as he settles back for a snooze. They're moving through Connecticut now, site of innumerable traditional bedroom communities for Manhattan and environs. It's congested and utterly boring, in a more or less genteel way; he's often wondered how anyone can stand to live here, in gated neighborhoods with manicured lawns and house paint colors approved by the homeowners association—but then people have to live somewhere. Still, better them than him.

"What do you think's gonna happen?"

Greg opens an eye. The kid's not looking at him, but it's clear the question was directed his way.

"Doesn't matter what I think," Greg says.

"It does to me."

Now that reply smacks of desperation. Interesting. Greg opens the other eye. "Stop panicking."

"I'm not." Jason tips his head back, tucks a thick lock of wavy hair behind his ear; he should have gotten it cut before they left. Committees are usually made up of people who appreciate neat clothes and neat hair. "I'm just asking."

Well, that's an outright lie. Can't let that one go by. "You want reassurance. I don't have any to give you. What happens depends on how persuasive your idiot department head is, how many favors he can call in to get you screwed, how many friends he has on the committee."

"He's a complete dick," the kid says. "Favors, not friends."

Greg nods. "That's a little more difficult. If he's a well-known jerk who's an equal opportunity offender, calling in markers can backfire."

"I've heard the tenured teachers talk about him. Lots of hardcore bitching." Jason falls silent. "Long-term, what do you think?"

Greg closes his eyes. "Depends on how you handle things. You'll have a harder time with some people and institutions, but that's natural. Rules are created mainly to keep the status quo and protect assets of all kinds. If you show you're dangerous and unpredictable by coloring outside the lines, you'll get put in the time-out corner."

"How long's the time-out?"

"Doesn't matter. Think about something else."

"How long was it for you?" the kid wants to know. Greg sighs.

"With some people there's no time limit once you get a reputation as a fence-breaker, so you're better off not fucking worrying about it. Do what you have to and screw anyone who doesn't get what your methods are, or your results."

Silence descends, but just as Greg is about to slip into sleep Jason says softly, "The courage of my convictions. That's what you're talking about, isn't it?"

Greg's eyelids flutter a bit. "Something like that. Shit or get off the pot."

"Nice," Faust says. "You always did have a way with an elegant turn of phrase."

"My blessing and my curse. Now both of you shut up. I'm an old fart and we're only halfway to Beantown. I need my beauty sleep."

They both take the hint and quiet down, which allows him to drift off. He doesn't wake until someone puts a hand on his shoulder.

"We're a couple of hours out," Faust says quietly. "We're gonna stop and take a break, get a hot dinner."

They have burgers and fries at a little diner off the beaten path. It's clearly a place both parties know well; they don't even look at the menu, just ask for the daily special. Greg knows when in Rome and all that, so he gets the special as well. "But dry—that means no condiments and no cheese. And NO pickles," he tells the server, who blinks but writes it down. When his burger comes out it's an enormous chunk of ground sirloin on a crusty grilled roll with onion rings piled around it. He looks it over.

"Onions aren't done enough," he says, and watches the platter go back, to return with rings just this side of carbonized. He accepts the food with enthusiasm and digs in as the young people watch in resigned disbelief.

"How can you stand to eat a naked burger and burned rings?" Faust wants to know. Jason shakes his head but says nothing, just takes a swallow of beer.

They're back on the road soon enough. By the time they reach the outskirts of Boston the last faint light is fading from the sky. They navigate the streets to the hotel where they'll be staying as Gary Clark sings 'In the Evening'. There's a spurious sense of calm, but under it is a tenseness, all the more powerful for being unspoken. They're almost at the heart of the matter, but not yet—not yet.

Greg's room is comfortable and bland, but the mini-bar is well-stocked and the bed is firm without being rock hard. He dumps his duffle on the floor, sits and takes out his link.

Roz answers on the first ring. "Hey," she says, and he hears the worry in her tender voice. "How's it going?"

"We're here," he says, and feels an odd sense of relief. "You're doing well, no doubt."

"Lonely, though," she says, and while there's a teasing note, she means it too. "Can't wait for you to get home."

"Me too," he says, and it's the truth. "Yeah, me too."

They exchange a few more bits and pieces, and then he's lying in the darkness staring up at the ceiling with a long night ahead of him, and the morning yet to come.

'_The Complete Collection', Robert Johnson_

'_Stagger Lee', Taj Mahal_

'_In the Evening', Gary Clark, jr._

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


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